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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24120955">The Etudes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soundtracker/pseuds/Soundtracker'>Soundtracker</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carol (2015)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Classical Music, F/F, Gen, Literature, Multi, Piano, Sexual Identity, Teacher-Student Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:29:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>33,833</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24120955</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soundtracker/pseuds/Soundtracker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>An awkward high school student takes music lessons from Miss Belivet. For readers who remember Woodwinds, this  AU is only moderately similar.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Carol Aird/Therese Belivet</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>481</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>276</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. No. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em> <b>Etude</b> (/ˈeɪtjuːd/; French: meaning 'study') is an instrumental musical composition, usually short, of considerable difficulty, and designed to provide practice material for perfecting a particular musical skill. </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>The first time I visited Miss Belivet’s apartment I was just a kid. Fifteen and headlong in the prime of a self and peer-professed weirdo stage, a no man’s land long past the cute phase and nowhere near blossoming. My mother, in her typical fashion, dropped me off too early on my first visit, advising me to read a book outside or occupy myself doing something equally inconspicuous and educational. “Better three hours too soon than a minute too late,” one of the quippy and irritating quotations she effortlessly pulled from her teachable moments arsenal. On this particular day, Mother also nagged me to “be polite, not interrupt and ask if Miss Belivet would take less money per hour if we paid in cash.” She commented too about what a nice apartment it was. “However could a student afford to live in a place like this?” </p><p>Waiting at the bottom of the steps leading to the historic, pre-war apartment, I was nervous, rechecking the time on my Hello Kitty watch, the one I wore twisted down to conceal the watch face. According to my mother and likely most of the conforming students at my high school, I was “much too old, among other things, to wear such a girlish timepiece.” </p><p>Time passed slowly in the uncomfortable heat, unseasonable in late May, but not uncommon for New York City. “Try to wait in the shade, record temps today,” my mother’s last words before driving away. I gave her a miserable glare from the curb after she did the universally annoying “chin-up” gesture. An impatient driver behind her also gave a honk and shared a universal gesture. Not rattled, Mother raised her arm out the car window and waved all fake to him, or me, or probably the both of us. I knew, based on her response in similar situations, she was giving the bird clandestinely with her other hand. “Fool ‘em with kindness,” another of her proverbs.</p><p>The bottom step of the apartment entrance where I sat was at least initially in the shade and provided the diversion of viewing occasional tenants entering or exiting, the type belonging to a class my familiar circles called “The Haves.” I’m sure I looked out of place sitting with my clarinet case upright on my lap like it was a piece of luggage and I was waiting for the next train to someplace else. </p><p>After waiting nearly an hour I decided to try and enter the apartment a bit early. I located the call box just outside the front door and scanned the names on the directory. After perusing the rows of names twice, I still could not locate Belivet. I searched for the apartment number next, the one my mother had written on a piece of paper held in my sweaty hand. The name listed for that unit read <em> Aird. </em> I panicked. Was I at the wrong building? My risk-averse Mother rarely tolerated or made mistakes. I still couldn’t shake the sense that this wasn’t the place I was supposed to be, a cosmic-level angst that persisted through much of my young adulthood. </p><p>I pressed the button beside the right number and wrong name.</p><p>After a significant pause, a woman’s voice answered “Yes?” just before I was about to bail.</p><p>“I ah ... I’m here for a clarinet lesson?” A lack of social confidence in general and specifically in regard to my current whereabouts turned a reasonable statement into an ambiguous question.</p><p>“Are you?” the woman said with what I wasn’t sophisticated enough to recognize as sarcasm.</p><p>“Um, I’m not sure I have the right address. Are you Miss Belivet?”</p><p>There was no answer, only a resonating click that ended our connection. I considered my predicament and prepared for the humiliation of calling home. A soft buzzer broke through the thick, humid air announcing my passing this “entrance exam.” I grabbed one of the large brass door handles and quickly stepped into the luxury of air conditioning.</p><p>Despite my intentionally sedate climb up five flights of stairs, I still arrived at the apartment door some ten minutes too early. Indecision left me approaching the door several times before backing away to linger in the hallway biting the inside of my cheek as I still do when faced with the unknown. </p><p>The door swung open. “Aren’t you coming in?” I recognized the voice from the intercom. The momentary image of a woman, the back of her anyway, appeared. She was walking back inside the apartment. My hand nearly missed the swinging door closing fast, watching her, barefoot, skim across the wood-planked floor. She was clad all in white: a pair of casual, cropped linen pants and an oversized shirt. Statuesque just inside the doorway, I sheltered behind the clarinet case held graceless in front of my body, covering as much of it as possible. How I wished the instrument were a tuba or cello instead. </p><p>The first thing I noticed about the apartment was the light -- so much of it streaming in from a large south-facing window. It remains one of my most vivid memories, standing in that brightness for the first time, filled with nerves and a strange new optimism. </p><p>There were moving type boxes of various sizes in the large living space, all of the boxes in what appeared to be different stages of packing or unpacking. The apartment was clean and open, the high ceilings inspired a freedom to reach up rather than be pushed down. Nothing decorated the walls, though I could see several colorful paintings leaned against an upholstered chair. Numerous stacks of books were in multiple locations on the floor, either freshly out of a box or headed for one.      </p><p>The woman, at present standing in front of a desk in the corner of the room, busied herself with papers and began furiously writing in some kind of notebook, returning presumably to work I’d interrupted. She looked older than what I expected as my mother found the private lessons advertised by a student on a bulletin board in the New York University Music Department. The woman kept right on working despite my presence, pushing large black glasses up higher on her nose and muttering something in the intense, absent-minded way of someone trying to solve a problem.</p><p>I considered what might constitute the most polite course of action. </p><p>The woman eventually spoke, pushing her work aside and sparing me speaking up for myself. “Forgive me, deadlines make me nervous.” She held up the notebook she was writing in and tossed it carelessly back onto the desk. </p><p>I over smiled, intimidated, a mouthful of metal orthodontia catching every ray of natural light and likely blinding her.     </p><p>“Therese,” she called out to someone apparently on the other side of the wall. “Your student --” she looked at me with discontent, waiting for me to more quickly fill in the sentence blank with my name.</p><p>“Ethan, ma’am,” I answered, my restless free hand shoved into the pocket of my denim shorts and my stupid metallic grin maintained.</p><p>“Ethan’s here for his lesson,” she said, her manner subdued. </p><p>“You’re not the teacher then?” It came out of me like all classic geek impulses, my voice breaking too into a unmanageable squeak before dropping an octave. My voice behaved in this manner with embarrassing regularity, its changing a cruel announcement of a boy who felt like a girl transitioning into a man.</p><p>“God no,” she said let out a minuscule, deadpan chuckle, “though I did play a saxophone badly when I was your age.” She picked up a few books from a stack on the floor, muttering “Disastrous,” which I assumed was a reference to the saxophone. She began placing books neatly within the extensive built-in bookshelves that lined the living room walls. I grew more curious about who she was: roommate of the teacher I’d come to see, sister … or was this simply her apartment and perhaps she loaned it out for music lessons? Her identity would preoccupy me for some time thereafter.</p><p>“Cool beans,” I said, parroting a popular phrase kids were using at school. I still don’t know what it means. She gave the appearance of ignoring me and so I glanced, hopeful, in the direction of the wall from where my music teacher was expected to magically appear.  </p><p>“You can set up over there, by the piano. If you like.” The woman nodded in the direction of a small studio piano in the opposite corner of the room from her desk. “God dammit,” she muttered when one of the books fell from its pile and landed on her bare foot.</p><p>“Yeah, okay.” I half waved at her. She didn’t see, preoccupied and with a slight limp floating back to her desk.</p><p>A chair and music stand waited for me beside the piano. I fought the inclination to touch the satin ebony finish and press my fingers on the keyboard. I’d messed around plenty with a piano at school, growing more passionate about its sound. I never wanted to play clarinet. It was Mother’s idea: her standards high and the family bank account low. When I showed an early love of music the clarinet was selected as it came at the right price: <em> free </em> from an uncle. Ours was an arranged musical marriage. Despite my lack of true feelings for the clarinet, I still excelled, surpassing the tutelage of my high school teacher who convinced Mother to find private instruction. </p><p>“Interested in Chopin are you?” The voice came from a pixie-like creature who materialized beside the piano. Miss Belivet stood watching me glued there, dork-like, to the sheet music resting on the piano. “Etude Op. 10, No. 3.” </p><p>“Um, I don’t know,” I said. I knew nothing of Chopin, although the complex sixteenth note patterns and crescendos and diminuendos on the sheet music intrigued me and left my brain full of beautiful musical possibilities. My gift for sight reading was still in its infancy; I would eventually learn to look at a piece of music and promptly decipher its technical and poetic flavors.   </p><p>“It’s one of Chopin’s etudes,” she continued, her face animated. “I’m studying him in one of my graduate courses. He’s remembered more for his nocturnes and Polonaises, but I’m most interested in his etudes. That particular one is perhaps his most beloved. His mastery of legato is evident in his etudes. It’s wonderful to find complexity and beauty in a musical exercise.” Her statement constituted a perfect foreshadowing. She abruptly stopped Chopin-fanning, though it was obvious she wished to continue. “Sorry, I’ve probably listened to his music far too much.” She smiled. </p><p>Despite her petite size, a genuine and disarming disposition made her appear larger, filling the apartment and taming my insecurity. I caught her looking at the other woman who was back to putting books on shelves. “And I take it you’ve met Carol?” Miss Belivet asked. I nodded, having “met” her as much as I supposed anyone could. A foolhardy, expansive metal grin, like a hiccup, resurfaced across my face.</p><p>Miss Belivet cleared her throat and waited for an acknowledgment from this Carol that never came. “Carol?” she eventually said with an understated, unyielding quality. </p><p>The other woman finally looked up blankly and nodded a far flung affirmation, her glasses askew and a high stack of books in her arms almost reaching her chin. The ensuing expression on Miss Belivet’s face was somewhere between irked and amused. I was socially adept enough to realize she was attempting an invitation or reminder that we be given privacy. It was after all a <em> private </em> lesson.</p><p>“Oh, of course,” this Carol finally read the conspicuous cues. She abandoned the high-rise of books in her hands, except one. “It’s a good time for a fresh air break,” she said, swinging the lone book at her side as though she’d planned leaving in the first place. On her way out of the room she squeezed Miss Belivet’s shoulder in an odd sort of way that caused small crimson patches to appear on my new teacher’s cheeks. I tried to read the title of the book the Carol woman carried as she walked away, but all I could make out was one of the words on the spine: <em> Matter. </em> Minutes later she breezed out the front door without a word, obviously intent on not drawing attention to herself. It drew more attention to my own curiosity concerning the matter of who she was and more importantly, who she <em> was </em> to my new teacher. </p><p>“Well, Ethan,” Miss Belivet breathed deeply, as an interlude, “I suppose we should begin our lesson. My name is Therese. Some people call me Terry. I’m casual, whichever you prefer.” I would never call her anything except Miss Belivet. </p><p>My nerves subsided listening to her describe the structure of our lessons, presenting an increasingly formal tone, her body posture erect, hands folded on her lap. She asked if I brought music to work on. “Not really,” I said, “my band teacher thought you could help me choose a piece for regional championships coming up in the fall.” My voice intermittently squawked as I explained the situation without arrogance, telling her how I’d long outgrown what my school instructor could teach. I’d become increasingly bored with the cadre of tunes the high school band and orchestra over practiced. </p><p>I felt rejuvenated with confidence reading and interpreting more challenging exercises. Miss Belivet alternated between demonstrating concepts on her clarinet or the piano. I preferred watching her small hands glide across the vast upper and lower planes of the keyboard rather than the limited upper and lower tubes of the clarinet. The 60-minute lesson concluded too soon with the promise that Miss Belivet would select a solo piece of music for our next lesson that suited my skill level. She told me that we would master it together. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>When I exited the apartment building I discovered the Carol woman seated near the bottom of the apartment steps reading in more shade than I found earlier in the day. </p><p>“See ya,” I said, stopping beside her, though my inclination was to run.</p><p>“Yeah,” she grunted, looking up in that obliging way people do without really seeing you. Her book was open across her lap and I gathered my presence was much less interesting than the words printed therein. She adjusted her large, black glasses and didn’t try to make conversation.  </p><p>When my mother pulled up alongside the curb, the relief between this Carol and myself was collective. I left her with a nervous wave, my braces gleaming in the sun. Before getting to the car, I turned briefly, expecting to find her splitting back inside the apartment building. However, she remained in the exact spot on the step blissfully unaware of me, her elbows on her knees now and the book raised so it covered much of her face. Her total reading immersion was discernible. </p><p>“Did you ask her about a cash discount?” my mother’s first words came through the open window before I even touched the car door. </p><p>“I forgot,” I said, “but she mentioned that I didn’t need to pay today and once a month is fine.”</p><p>This was not the acceptable answer. I sat down in the passenger seat hoping she’d let it go. Pit bulls and my mother rarely let go.</p><p>“Go back and ask her. No time like the present. Here, take this.” She forced a twenty into my hand. The ad stipulated twenty-five.</p><p>“Come on, Mom. We should have asked her already on the phone.”</p><p>“Everything’s negotiable, we signed no contract,” she said, closing her wallet.</p><p>“I’ll ask next time.” </p><p>“Nope, mister. Buzz the box and settle up now. You were inside, I’m sure it’s a nice place. She can afford a new student discount and you know this lesson’s a stretch for us. Go on, I’ll circle the block and come back in a few minutes. And next time, you’ll take the bus.” I felt the familiar, geologic energy of non-negotiation. She was Borg and resistance was futile.</p><p>Carol looked up from her book relationship when my mother was pushing me out the door. Tears of morbidly sensitive sissy humiliation burned my skin. I stood on the curb, stranded. My mother yelled, “Toughen up, kiddo!” and she drove away.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. No. 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Motionless, I stood on the sidewalk in the same spot where my mother left me. Despite physical paralysis, psychologically I was running, headed toward another city, country or planet in search of my kind. My throat burned as it does when you cry, the feeling of being choked from the inside by your own sensitivity.</p><p>The Carol woman shielded her eyes with both hands held above her glasses as looking at me put her in the direct path of the sun. She glanced up and down the street too, I presumed in search of Mother’s beater Ford Escort sputtering about the neighborhood.</p><p>“Is everything all right?” she asked after a probable minute that passed between us slow and painful like kidney stones. Based on my short exposure to her restrained and aloof behavior, I was convinced being stuck out here with me presented an upset to her well-engineered use of time.</p><p>I coughed and clumsily shrugged “Yeah.” I must have looked like a wooden fixture to her standing there with my spindly, restless arms anchored at my sides. Without my clarinet case, the one I left in the car, there was nothing to hold onto, least of all my pride. A few pedestrians passed without knowing where to look, embarrassed for me or themselves, stumbling onto a teary-eyed, freakish boy standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Snot dripped from my nose and I bit the inside of my cheek with teeth and metal. I took a few aimless steps toward a long row of immaculately sculpted shrubs that lined the edge of the apartment, the kind found in the manicured landscaping of the area. I parked myself there without a plan, except the one where I picked at the greenery. I stood with my back to Miss Belivet’s friend, grinding bits of arborvitae in between my alternating black and pink polished fingernails.</p><p>I scarcely heard Carol approach. She ended up near me while maintaining a wide berth: a woman about to coax a stray dog to eat from her hand. I wiped my face with the backside of my hand and watched her fumble, feeling around her clothing, I supposed for a tissue or handkerchief that she didn’t possess. “Hey, it’s all right,” she said probably as much to herself as to me. I could feel her initial discomfort, looking over her shoulder toward the apartment, likely in hopes of somehow summoning Miss Belivet to rescue her. There was no rescue as my teacher was safely on the fifth floor imaginably lost between the notes of a Chopin etude.</p><p>“What’s the matter?” The woman maintained a respectful distance from me; but, I remember feeling a great sense of consolation in her being there and not altogether ditching me. She held her book under one arm so its title continued its clandestine unreadability. I wanted to know now, more than before, the content of matters that occupied her mind.</p><p>“My ah … mom --” I choked, unable to describe the lameness of the situation. I dug my hands deep into my pockets where I inadvertently felt the wadded twenty. It produced an immediate assessment of my strong feelings toward my mother, things I would never adequately express, except through the aid of music therapy … and <em>therapy</em>. It wasn’t simple. I hated her. I loved her. She was as much a product of nature and circumstances as I was. But on this particular day, with the indecorous expectation that I should negotiate with Miss Belivet, I hated her. Standing with shrubbery on my hands and a stranger consoling me, I knew I would never “toughen up” enough to please her. In her desperation to rise above the family’s budgetary constraints and provide her children luxuries like music lessons, she toughened herself up too hard and grew increasingly flawed. She readily sought out what she regarded as wisdom from unreliable, gimmicky sources. The most recent she’d picked up from our local library: <em>The Art of the Deal</em>. It was a business-advice book popular at the time [it ended up being a fabricated detritus about a narcissistic con man]. How could anyone, most of all my own Mother, believe art existed in a deal? When I thought about it as a young man, I heard the wailing spirits of Whitman, Van Gogh or Miss Belivet’s Chopin. But I digress.</p><p>“Hey, now,” Carol took a few steps closer, close enough to see the red bumps of acne on my chin scattered amongst the peach fuzz. She rested her hand on my shoulder, an irony, considering she’d previously given me the equivalent of a cold shoulder. An elderly woman with orange hair and a toy dog carried inside her handbag approached the apartment walkway. She slowed down to an intrusive pace, rubbernecking the fragility of my position. “Buzz off,” Carol said.</p><p>“Hmph.” The woman scooted herself away as roaches do when the lights come on. </p><p>"Some people,” Carol scoffed under her breath. “Go on,” she released her hand from my shoulder, “what happened with your mom?”</p><p>“She wants me to ask Miss Belivet about a discount for my lessons. I … was … supposed to. I forgot.”</p><p>“I see.” Her response touched down flat, a windless desert of impartiality.</p><p>“I probably shouldn’t have come for the lesson today. I don’t think my family can afford it.”</p><p>“Would you like to ask her?”</p><p>“Ask her? Ah, you mean Miss Belivet?” My reluctance was a giant white flag of uncomfortable surrender.</p><p>“Well, yes.” She had an enviable skill of directness, minimal word darts landing on an inner bullseye.</p><p>She left me with the shrubs and casually walked inside the apartment building to fetch my teacher and presumptively discuss the nature of the spectacle and the requested customer coupon. I waited and watched the curb for my mother, not sure who I dreaded seeing first: her or Miss Belivet.</p><p>“Ethan?” I turned and there she was, Miss Belivet, walking toward me, her fingers delicately threaded together and her face not distorted with the signs of perturbation I awaited.</p><p>“Hi, um ... I wanted to ask you ...” I talked fast, trying to get on with it before the Escort pulled up. But I couldn’t, I was unable to ask her, failing to apply toughness or “art” toward a hopeful deal. “I’m sorry,” was all I offered and I looked down at her fingers, still clasped together like she was protecting something she planned to eventually set free.</p><p>“How much can you pay?” she asked, a kindness in her eyes that felt specific to no one except me.</p><p>“Would $20 be okay?” I pulled the bill from my pocket and held it out to her, my eyes diverted.</p><p>“That’s fine.” She said. “You keep it for now. Remember what I said about paying once per month?”</p><p>“Yeah, okay. Thanks.” My relief came out as inappropriate laughter. At least it was better than succumbing to more tears.</p><p>Mother’s car slid to the curb with a honk.</p><p>“I’d like to meet your mother,” Miss Belivet said. It was an unpleasant prospect.</p><p>We walked toward the car, an angel escorting me to the Escort. “Hello, Mrs. Glodowski, I’m Therese Belivet.” She spoke with agility as the car could not remain parked there long. A slim diet of pleasantries was exchanged rapid-fire while I situated myself in the passenger seat. “Your son is not only a talented musician, but a skilled negotiator. We managed to agree to a reduction in his lessons to $20 per hour. Also, my …” she hesitated briefly, “my roommate and I would like to know if it would be possible to hire Ethan to help with some light organizing chores and errands after his lessons. We recently moved in and could use another set of hands getting situated. It would only be for a few weeks. We can settle up the details later.” She winked at me.</p><p>“Really? Well. That sounds wonderful, doesn’t it, Ethan?” Mother seemed as disbelieving and thrilled as I was. She patted my thigh proudly on the ride home. “A discount and your first job, how about that? You can thank me for giving you a little push.”</p><p>As the neglected car drove away, leaving a trail of exhaust, Miss Belivet waved to me. I couldn’t decide which apartment window on the fifth floor was hers, but I scanned for it, hoping to make out even a faint image of Miss Carol [what I would end up calling her] looking down, keeping a watchful eye on Miss Belivet and perhaps, I hoped, even me. I couldn’t see her, but I felt reassured knowing she was up there. Somewhere.</p><p>My mother’s voice rattled off a reminder of how I’d need to take the bus next time. She asked only a few questions about how the lesson went, more concerned with the apartment furnishings and details I couldn’t provide about the teacher and this “roommate situation.” I scarcely heard her, lost in my expectations about next week’s lesson and the chores the two intriguing women had in store for me.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. No. 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After his second music lesson, Ethan helps Miss Belivet and her roommate get more settled into their apartment. He learns of tension between them and newfound glimpses into their lives leads to his simmering curiosity.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Riding the city bus to my second music lesson, I sat in the middle section. It was halfway between elderly folks up front and the homeless and other broken souls in the rear. Most of these riders all had one thing in common: the simple need of a human ear to bend. Often, especially on the city bus, that ear was mine. Most of the time I didn’t mind, still don’t, growing accustomed to the <em> Tell Me Your Life Story </em> sign I apparently hold. But, on this particular day, I muted humanity, lost in the new wave styling of Duran Duran that hissed from the cheap headphones of my Sony Walkman. The synthetic noise rolled distant and lazy across my brain and carried me into a gnawing, dreamlike place where I pondered the two new people whose life stories I definitely wanted to hear. Simply the first few bars of popular music from that era or a particular Chopin composition can render me immobile, stuck on pause and overtaken by an atmosphere of sweet longing.   </p><p> </p><p>Her arms were full of music selections when she opened the door. “Miss Belivet,” I blurted out, my eyes in better contact with the high-top trainers on my feet than her face. “... I um ... wanted to say thanks again for … last time.” A lingering sense of gratitude toward both my teacher and her roommate motivated my words, second only to a burgeoning curiosity about the particulars of their lives and cohabitation. </p><p>“No need.” She waved a hand forgivingly in the air and wasted no time ushering me inside. “Let’s get right to the pieces I’ve chosen for you to consider, shall we?” She was more business-like than our first meeting and moved with restraint, as if carrying the weight of some preoccupation. </p><p>I followed her toward the piano, scanning the room for clues about the nature of what chores she and her presently absent roommate might assign after the lesson. The moving boxes from last week were in the same locations and the main room appeared unchanged with much of the built-in bookshelves bare. The large corner desk was covered with more items, the titles of unknown publications remaining disappointingly out of my visual reach. For now. </p><p>Situating myself in the student chair I noticed a white envelope resting on the piano’s music rack, <em>Therese</em> penned distinctively in cursive letters that floated featherlike across the white parchment. My teacher apparently noticed the item for the first time as our eyes met in an uncomfortable gaze before she scooped up the envelope and placed it atop the piano. She moved directly into the lesson with a formality that felt untrue to her nature. “Shall we begin?” She sat down at the piano.</p><p>The first piece we ran through to consider for the upcoming competition was a clarinet arrangement of the Chopin etude, the one she spoke of enthusiastically at our first meeting. It proved the most beautiful and difficult. Accompanying me, her eyes closed on several occasions, her face overcome with emotions extending beyond the limited boundaries of the piano keyboard. Despite my inexperience in complex matters of the heart, innately I still understood secret flashes of stifled sorrow were contained in those expressions. </p><p>“I choose that one, it’s cool.” The unrefined comment preceded overgrin, the same expression you’ll find in the majority of my yearbook photos grades seven through twelve. </p><p>“I’m pleased,” she said. “Chopin considered this etude the most beautiful melody he composed. It’s known as a study in expression.” </p><p>If she only knew how intently <em> I’d </em> studied her facial expressions. </p><p>“I know I can do better,” I said, embarrassed at an inability to execute the difficult, irregular rhythms in some sections of the piece. “I stunk up the middle part pretty bad.”</p><p>“Oh, no, you did fine,” she said, “you mustn’t be so hard on yourself.” She looked down at the piano keys and nodded in this elusive manner, it gave the impression that perhaps she hadn’t mastered the advice either. Most of us haven’t. She scarcely began providing pointers for the next exercise when the sound of a phone ringing somewhere on the other side of the wall changed the mood. “The answering machine can get it,” she said dismissively before an awareness of the caller’s identity.</p><p>“Therese, it’s Mom. Please pick up. I know you said you need some space, but I just  ...” </p><p>Miss Belivet stood up. “Excuse me,” she said, her face whitewashed, “I’ll be right back.” Disappearing in the direction of the voice, she left me with a first glimpse into the delicate personal matters of the apartment dwellers.</p><p>“I’m sorry you’re upset with us,” the caller’s voice rose in volume and emotion, and likely my listening level heightened. “We can’t help being concerned about your living <em> situation. </em>” The distraught caller continued until Miss Belivet presumably reached the phone. Her soft voice drifted faintly through the wall and an edgy suppression filled the apartment. Fortunately, a door closed, improving my status as comfortably unable to continue overhearing either side of the conversation.</p><p>Restless, I took the opportunity to explore the corner desk during Miss Belivet’s absence. In a large, open notebook were various notes as well as the stuff of mathematical equations and graphs. Terms such as <em>Recessionary Gap and Deflation</em> were noted above one graph<em>.</em> I recognized a familiarity in the looping cursive. Though messier than the deliberate penmanship on the envelope that rested on the piano, the writing was nonetheless the same. Before hearing my teacher’s approaching footsteps I managed to read a few of the titles of books relevant to economics, mathematics and philosophy. </p><p>She apologized for the interruption and the remainder of the lesson was subdued, the particulars of the phone call, though now disconnected, seemed firmly attached to Miss Belivet. </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Carol walked through the apartment door as my lesson ended. Her jingling keys, that she made no attempt to dampen, were a marvelous announcement of her entrance.  “Well. Mr. Ethan.” She acknowledged me with her distinctive directness that grew more amusing to me over time.</p><p>“Hi, ah, Miss Carol,” I raised a few “all thumbs” fingers toward her and flashed the metal.</p><p>“Miss Carol? Hmm.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I approve.”</p><p>I apologized. She let me suffer for a few seconds before winking or perhaps my memory embellished the detail. In any case, her playful undertones were as good as a wink. “Kidding, kiddo, I quite like Miss Carol,” she chuckled, pulling a stack of mail from a large leather book bag and explaining how the name made her sound a proper British lady. Miss Belivet appeared amused by the interaction, it was the happiest I’d seen her since my arrival.</p><p>“Did you get my note?” Carol’s mood abandoned the playfulness. She put on reading glasses and kept her attention on both Miss Belivet and the mail, sorting and shuffling envelopes.</p><p>“I saw it,” my teacher said firmly, embarrassed I gathered, having this discreet conversation in front of me. “I just haven’t had time to read it.” </p><p>Carol appeared altogether <em> not </em> embarrassed about her candor in front of me. In time I learned how she prided herself on never letting sleeping dogs lie. She faced festering, unresolved issues of the symbolic sleeping pooch with an alarm clock. It was apparent there was an implied, unresolved issue or possibly quarrel between the two women that I supposed had something to do with the nature of the phone call I inadvertently overheard. </p><p>“Please read the letter. And, I’m sorry. All right?” Carol paused with the sorting. They shared the briefest glance and my teacher offered a slight nod of deep understanding. My young heart identified an aching galaxy of unspoken words exchanged between them during a single glance. Though I could only speculate the particulars of their tension that day, seeing how they interacted made me want to understand their connection and experience something similar with a painfulness that comes from being a silent observer.</p><p>
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</p><p>My first chore following the lesson was helping unload items from a moving trailer. Miss Belivet and I waited outside alongside the apartment loading zone. “We took a road trip,” she briefly explained the particulars of why we were standing there, waiting for Miss Carol to move a small trailer to the loading zone. “We just got back a few days ago … from my parent’s.” She looked at me in an uncomfortable, pensive way, likely knowing as she did my overhearing the phone call from her mother. “We went home to pick up …my things.” It seemed hard for her to talk about it, this trip and her home. If I were her equal, I might have asked where home was or why her phoning mother was “concerned.” She went on to explain that I would be helping move clothes and books and a chair that was her grandmother’s. “It will go faster with a strong young man.”</p><p>She’d never know how I’d gladly have helped them move a semi-truck's worth of belongings. She overlooked what most people saw in me: a weak physique. Perhaps Miss Belivet could appreciate that I possessed the soul of a lion. Her comment regarding my strength altered the hue of my cheeks, likely matching the orange shade of a small moving trailer coming toward us. The sedan and trailer slid alongside the curb and Carol slinked out. The dexterity in how she moved her body, from the flick of her hair to the landing of her feet was like nothing I’d ever seen. Part ballerina, part commando, she embodied grace and gall in this sensual rhythm. I could NOT look away. Though it would be a number of years before I decided whether I preferred to <em> be </em> a woman like her or be <em> with </em> one, my body hummed. </p><p>A mustached man in a passing truck yelled something to Carol that my mother would label “earthy” and a nonsense justification that “boys will be boys.” My recollection of the driver’s exact remarks are dim, however, I recall with clarity his last two words “hot” and “damn.” It angered me, embarrassed for my sex. The women reacted to the cat call by not reacting. It fazed Miss Carol about as much as would a flea farting on an elephant’s backside. She got on with the business of unlocking the trailer and Miss Belivet too responded to the incident with an air of nonchalance, giving me the impression they were both familiar with objectification. </p><p>The moving went quickly. Several times I was left alone with Carol in the elevator or in the apartment. It was the perfect opportunity to ask a question, something engaging such as what was she working on at her desk or how was it she came to know Miss Belivet. Easily the first question intrigued while the latter captivated. While riding the elevator with her and a piece of Miss Belivet’s furniture, Carol smiled at me once. I smiled back and stared into middle Earth. She regarded her wrist as though looking for a watch not there. “So,” I said with a pounding heart, flicking long bangs out of my eyes, “you like books?”   </p><p>“Don’t <em> you </em>?” she replied, walking backward out of the elevator, holding one end of Miss Belivet’s green grandmother armchair while I held the other. </p><p>“Yeah,” I replied, flummoxed. I planned to elaborate on the depths of my bibliophilic tendencies, but tripped on the elevator threshold, careening forward and dropping my end of the chair. My body, as well as my tongue, took the shape of a knot in Miss Carol’s presence. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Miss Belivet paid me in cash and offered a cold Coke for the road. I’ve yet to taste a colder, better beverage.   </p><p>“Hold up,” Miss Carol caught me before I left. “Ethan’s a book lover,” she informed my teacher and began to rifle through boxes of books, looking me up and down a few times as if fitting me for new mental clothing. “Here,” she said at last, handing me a book, “have you read this one?” </p><p> </p><p>On the bus ride home I opened the pages of Viktor Frankl’s <em> Man’s Search for Meaning, </em> my hands pressed down respectfully on the loaned paperback <em> . </em>The words resonated as much for their wisdom as for the special circumstances of the book being selected for me by Miss Carol. What did she see in me that made this book and I compatible?</p><p>Walking from the bus stop, my mind wandered from what I’d read of Frankl, replaced by a conjured scene of Miss Belivet reading Carol’s letter. What did it say? Only I could imagine it, and so I did. My creation lacked flowery detail, an absolute directness and brevity in Carol’s plea for absolution. Carol’s voice in my head and Miss Belivet, sitting at the piano, absorbing every word.    </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dear Therese,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Please forgive me.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I didn’t say the right things when you needed me to. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yours,  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Carol </em>
</p><p>Miss Belivet surely went to where Carol was sitting at her desk drawing graphs to explain supply and demand, wealth and poverty. No words were exchanged between them. They simply stood together in a newfound understanding, two intersecting lines on a graph eventually coming together. </p><hr/><p>When I arrived home my mother was not interested in the particulars of my music lesson. She did, however, immediately ask how much money I was paid.</p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for staying with this unconventional story. To the writers and readers who come here to share their imaginations and perspective, wishing you peace.<br/>-Soundtracker</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. No. 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ethan works on a special project with Miss Belivet that unleashes his young imagination and he braves asking some personal questions.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first book Miss Carol placed into my soft hands, Frankl’s memoir, rattled my comfortable preference for science fiction and fantasy, opening a brave new world that altered my typical reading experience from escaping reality to facing it. Dystopian novels where cyberpunk hackers fought artificial institutions gradually took a pause while I read real accounts of narrators who actually braved unimaginable hardship. Ancillary to my lessons, an exposure to a new, wider world of literature expanded my lonely universe and I scrutinized every sentence with the exhilarating concept that Miss Carol read and considered those <em> exact </em> words. Our discussions of the few books she loaned were brief and she never shared her opinion of the material, asking exclusively for mine. <em> Mine </em>. She listened to an over-enthused synopsis followed by her signature impartial nod. It represented a satisfying acknowledgement that we both read the same book. It was enough.  </p><p> </p><p>The next several lessons are blurry, I recall Miss Carol was not present, working I was told, at her office. I pictured her drawing complex graphs somewhere in seclusion. Though she was absent during many lessons, as you’ll see, she was still quite present. A particular lesson comes to mind. It was the occasion of my returning the Frankl book and more importantly, finally learning the circumstances of my teacher meeting Miss Carol for the first time.</p><p>“Oh, yes, the Frankl book,” Miss Belivet said as I handed it to her at the end of our lesson. She placed it on the chair of Carol’s desk. “I’m sorry she’s working another weekend,” she added, detecting I supposed, my growing disappointment at the absences and my desire to return the book personally. And I detected, in her, loneliness on this Saturday. As much as I adored my music teacher, there was a charged energy when they were both present, an exciting feeling of possibility in the air as before an approaching storm. “Did you like the book?” she said in a flat, objective manner. It sounded as though she was attempting to mimic Miss Carol’s likely attitude.  </p><p>“Yes,” I said, “it was ...” reaching for the right word, my pitch went soprano “... heavy.” It wouldn’t be until a second reading of Frankl in my twenties, during a time of great discontentment that the book would come to have deep meaning. </p><p>“Have you read it?” I asked, inching my foot out onto a ledge where I wanted to leap with a freefall of numerous questions. </p><p>“Read it? Me? Afraid not. If it’s not related to school and music ...” She trailed off and finished jotting notes in the margins of our final exercise of the day. “Carol’s more the reader.” The comment sprung from her naturally as talk of coming rain. I recall vividly her seeming flustered and looking away as if embarrassed for drawing a comparison between herself and Carol, as couples tend to do. She clasped her hands and set them on her lap. “Well,” she said with an efficient smile, “I was hoping you might help me shelve all of these books today. As you can see, we’ve clearly made no progress. With Carol on deadline … and me with school. Well, I’d do it myself, but it’s rather ... boring.” She shrugged and looked about the room with some frustration. I suspect the truth of the matter involved them intentionally saving the project as one of my chores.  </p><p>We began the book project with Miss Belivet designating categories: textbooks, general reference, biographies, non-fiction and fiction. I stood amongst the content growing intoxicated by possibility. Though aware that I would not read much of it, I still held onto the power of those books, spellbound by the potential knowledge held therein. </p><p>An efficient system soon developed: I handed books to Miss Belivet from the categorized piles on the floor and she found appropriate locations within the bookcases. Her small, delicate hands organized large reference manuals -- encyclopedias, a dictionary the size of France and a thesaurus, shelving them closest to Miss Carol’s desk. Sometimes I’d sneak a peek inside the pages, thumbing through to feel the paper or perhaps stumble onto something meaningful: a photograph or special bookmark. Seeing a photograph or two would come in time. </p><p>Trust me. </p><p>Be patient. </p><p>Eventually, I braved the first personal question, a small conversational crack that would slowly bend and grow wider. “Does, ah, Miss Carol do something with numbers?” I handed her a book full of the kinds of graphs I previously spied in a notebook.</p><p>She answered frankly, explaining how Carol was an associate economics professor. “Macroeconomics is her specialty. She’s particularly interested in studying the post-World War II economy.” </p><p>“Choice,” I said the annoying expression of the era I’m glad died along with “gag me with a spoon” and “no duh.” Despite over zeal, I had no idea what macroeconomics meant. </p><p>She continued talking, to my surprise, as though our handling Carol’s books was akin to sipping alcohol that made her chattier. “She’s in the middle of finishing several research papers due soon. She dislikes deadlines, always waits until the last minute.” </p><p>“I write all my book reports the night before they’re due,” I said, suddenly proud of the trait.</p><p>“I finish schoolwork a week before it’s due,” Miss Belivet shrugged. </p><p>Many times I needed to ask my teacher the category a particular book belonged. I quickly noted a trend: many books related specifically to the 1950s. Biographies on Truman and Eisenhower and a rare fashion or architecture book about the era. “Carol’s fascinated by the 1950s, not just specific to her studies,” Miss Belivet clarified. “You probably didn’t notice, but most of the fiction in her collection was written in the late 1940s or 1950s.” She pointed to the stacks we hadn’t yet shelved. I recall noting Bradbury’s <em> Fahrenheit 451 </em> on top of one enormous fiction pile <em> . </em></p><p>Miss Belivet said that she wasn’t sure why Carol liked the 1950s, but pointed out how she was after all “born in that decade.” The way she noted it, combined with my recognizing more laugh lines around one of their eyes, made me certain Miss Belivet was a child of the sixties. It didn’t dawn on me until my writing that we each belonged to a succeeding decade. But, excuse my diversion; musicians are often as preoccupied with numbers as we are notes. </p><p>Miss Belivet went on to explain that Carol experienced a strange déjà vu when she viewed pictures from the fifties. “My grandmother,” she added, to my fascination, the one who gave her the green chair, “believed in all sorts of mystical things.” Miss Belivet was sure, had her grandmother been alive, she would attempt reading skeptical Carol’s palm, among other things. She winked when I looked at my own palm after her story, not knowing that the curved lines I found there were signs of difficult bumps in the roads of adulthood I would travel.  </p><p>Eventually, my teacher slid the few boxes of her own books, the ones I helped carry from the trailer, into the center of the room. She made a point of commenting again on her limited literary taste: “See what I mean?” She held up a few of her books, all relating to the narrow topics of music composition or music history. I found significance in how her limited collection of books was placed carefully on the shelves alongside Carol’s. I almost heard a distant and haunting melody after the placement of the last book, as the timelessness of her musical world commingled with weighty matters of economic scarcity and 1950s history. My mind took massive creative liberties with the symbolic mixing of their books. In a near dreamlike state, I could not halt the mental pictures that ensued of the two women commingling as did their libraries. First, with their hands, then arms and if I am to give a fair account of my unleashed mind, dear reader, allow me to admit something. I saw their lips combining next too. </p><p>If only that were all. </p><p>Seeing Miss Belivet’s beautifully content expression while carefully sliding her books beside Carol’s gave me more vibrant and uncontrollable flashes of them together.  Within each progressing flash, I humbly confess to you, they were wearing less clothing and I was all the while composing the seeds of some future piano melody. Perhaps I should have altered the font in this paragraph to the smallest setting possible. Please forgive these candid memories of my unformed self. </p><p>My face, during this episode, must have gone quite stupid (<em> No duh </em> ). My teacher was apparently talking to me all the while, continuing her shelving. “Ethan?” I finally heard her raised voice, (then my mother’s even louder as she does when I tune her out: <em> Ethan, Ethan Glodowski!) </em>A frightening image of Carol lit up my brain too: a cold stare of disapproval, one brow raised and glasses hanging on the edge of her nose.   </p><p>“Yes, Miss Belivet?” I said, coming too and nearly dropping a book.</p><p>“You’ve been miles away. Whatever are you thinking about?”</p><p>“Um, ah, school junk,” I stalled, trying to wipe my brain clean, if only I’d not used a permanent marker on a dry erase board. </p><p> </p><p>Next we broke down the cardboard boxes leftover as well as a few empty boxes she brought from other rooms. I followed on several trips to the trash area of the building’s basement. “Was Miss Carol your teacher?” The question flung from me quite unexpectedly as we tossed flattened boxes into a large trash bin in those days before weekly recycling pick-up. </p><p>“Me, in an economics class? Hardly.” She laughed, not appearing bothered by my secret interest in their meeting. “Miss Carol was in the audience at one of my university recitals.” She said it freely and with an attractive dampened pride.</p><p>“Cool,” I said as an infestation of new questions buzzed inside my head. <em> How does someone seated in an audience come to live with the person performing on stage? </em> We walked down the long hallway leading to her corner apartment. How I wished it were miles long as the combination of moving and talking aided her ease of sharing.</p><p>“Brahms, Sonata No. 2 in E-Flat Major.” She rattled off the title of the recital piece she played just as we reached the apartment door. Her face flickered briefly with a soft light, the kind you see in early morning that suggests the commencing of something new. </p><hr/><p>I had one stop to make before heading home. Miss Belivet asked if I minded dropping off change of address forms she kept forgetting to mail at the nearby post office. I tried not to look at the postcards, but of course I caught a fleeting glimpse just before they slid inside the jumbo blue box. Streets and city names landed in my head, filling in pieces of their history.  </p><p>Riding the bus home I sat in the preferred middle section where I soon found my seat at a recital, Miss Belivet performing her clarinet solo and Carol seated too in the middle section. The crowded bus hummed along, stopping too frequently on busy city streets and I conjured an unknown Brahms sonata. The bus passengers faded into nothing as did everyone in Miss Belivet’s audience, except for Carol.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Back for more, trying to be the encouraged "bold” with this first person POV universe and transporting you into four different head spaces and multiple time periods. This chapter wasn’t intended as the ending, as I had a different one in mind. Yet, after finishing, it might land nicely here. Tell me your thoughts. Everything’s an experiment. </p><p>Special thank you to the readers who downloaded Falling Small and generously left feedback.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. No. 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Beyond chapter 4. More Ethan.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On a rainy winter night that fell just days before my 19th birthday, I stood in front of Miss Belivet’s apartment shivering, not as much from the cold, but the shock of having just gotten the unholy crap beaten out of me. Somewhat older and wiser to the realization that life can be cruel and unkind, certainly for someone like me, I hobbled toward the apartment’s call box, holding my ribs and guarding my swollen and stinging eyes from the rain. My hand hovered, shaky, over the button beside their names, now listed as <em>Aird/Belivet</em>. Christ. How I missed them. Had too much time passed or not enough since that wretched damn music competition? It was well past midnight, too late to be wandering around like this and <em>way</em> too late to disturb them. Yet, I stood there, pressing the button beside their names, leaning toward the speaker, praying they would answer.</p>
<hr/><p>Though summer vacation had started, I was afforded little time for unstructured idleness, expected to practice clarinet several hours each day in preparation for the fall competition as well as begrudgingly enrolling in an advanced algebra class. Mother insisted that I “Get ahead of the curve.” </p><p>Confined to a summer school classroom on a hot July afternoon, I was surrounded by the dusty odor of chalk powder and the droning hum of a box fan propped inside an open window. Algebraic concepts gradually comprised a smaller fraction of my focus, outnumbered by images of my mind theater with my scenes of a Brahms recital in an intimate NYU concert hall playing out. Carol wandered backstage, through a misty stage-fog. There she found extra chairs and dusty music stands. <em>And,</em> Miss Belivet.</p><p>“Excuse me,” Carol was polite, but firm.</p><p>“Yes?” Miss Belivet looked up, startled and guarded as one would be if approached by a stranger in the implied <em>Private, Do Not Enter</em> nature of a backstage area.  </p><p>“I was in your audience and --” </p><p> </p><p>“Ethan? HELLO? Mr. Ethan? Are you there? Please approach the blackboard and solve for xy.” My algebra instructor had the worst timing and of course I had no solution for xy. Solving for xx came much more naturally.</p>
<hr/><p>On the occasion of my next music lesson, I experienced two rude awakenings while making my way to Miss Belivet’s. First, I nearly bumped squarely into an unpleasant young woman, a teenager, who like me, carried a clarinet case. She was one of those graceful, early bloomer types walking out the front door of the apartment building just as I was walking in. Sizing up my not blooming status, she pointed her perfectly-shaped nose high into the stratosphere and sashayed past me. </p><p>My second rude awakening came by way of a curly-haired monster, the kind of child you peg as terrifying with a single glance. She poked her head out of a neighboring apartment door. I waved in reflex and fear. Sensing my state of discomfort, she laughed with a most disconcerting hint of malice. She proceeded to stick out a fire engine red, candy-coated tongue in my general direction, holding it with satisfaction. A venomous snake of a wee girl about to strike had I never before encountered. As I hurried by, I was convinced of her future career as despot. I knew the type. She disappeared back inside, her taunting laughter lingering in the hallway for seconds and inside my head for an hour. </p><p>This would unfortunately not be the last time I would encounter either of these quite unpleasant persons.</p><p>The realization that Miss Belivet had another or likely <em>other</em> students, hit me dumb in the head and heart. Would someone now or eventually follow my time slot? </p><p>“Hello Ethan.” Miss Belivet smiled cheerfully, holding the door open for me. “How’s your summer coming along?” </p><p>“Fine,” I said, except for algebra.” I made a grimacing face -- it was easy, I was still thinking about those dreadful girls. I went on to explain, in brief, the nature of my summer school predicament, a.k.a. Mother’s desire for me to excel … <em>in everything</em>.</p><p>“Carol’s a wiz in math,” Miss Belivet said, sitting erect at the piano, thumbing through a notebook listing our lesson goals. </p><p>Cautiously, I glanced over at Miss Carol’s desk still full of her vacancy.</p><p>“She’s a very good teacher,” she went on, her cheeks flushed suddenly and she looked somewhat uncomfortable, adjusting her position upon the piano bench. Apparently Miss Carol was good at teaching her things, but I gathered, <em>not</em> math. “We may very well see her today. She’s finished her writing deadline. I’m sure she’d be happy to help with the algebra …problem.” She spoke brightly; aware I gathered of my disappointment at yet another lesson sans Carol. In her news, I found great hopefulness. </p><p> </p><p>Miss Carol was loud when she came through the front door, muttering something under her breath. I was assisting Miss Belivet hanging framed photographs and artwork in the main living area. We both stopped to watch Carol. It was impossible to look away during any of her entrances.</p><p>“What an absolute little tyrant,” she said, exasperated, setting her things down.</p><p>“Another run in with the neighbor girl, huh?” My teacher’s tone was playful, like a child herself. She turned and explained what I already knew based on first-hand experience. “This neighbor kid likes to pester Carol.”</p><p>“Try torment. That child’s got it in for me.” Carol bent down and poked around inside the refrigerator. </p><p>“Hey, she’s got it in for me too,” I shared my encounter with enthusiasm.</p><p>Walking toward me with two cans of Coke, she handed one to me. “Here, consider us brothers in arms against that little oppressor.” We tapped the glorious, cold red cans in solidarity and my whole world got better. Just better. </p><p>Carol took a seat in the mystical, green grandmother chair. She sipped the beverage, closing her eyes occasionally I assumed at the sinful sensation of burning carbonation that I too experienced. She seemed content watching us hang the black and white framed photos. It was a rare moment when she seemed completely relaxed, not preoccupied by some great and distant matter or her body not in perpetual motion. I wondered if in that rare serenity Miss Belivet’s grandmother was trying to reach Carol from the great beyond, perhaps to read her palm. Whatever would it say?</p><p>“Do you know who took all of these photos?” Carol asked me. She was leaning comfortably against the chair with the Coke can in her hand hanging to one side and her long legs crossed.</p><p>“Was it you?” I proposed, ceasing the tapping in of a nail and hook on the wall above the piano.</p><p>“Oh, no, sweetheart, I have no artistic talent.”</p><p>“It’s just a hobby, they’re not <em>that</em> good.” My teacher didn’t take praise easily, a trait similar to the meager list of humble people I’d ever come to know.</p><p>She held a framed picture that would soon hang above the piano; it was a black and white photograph of a large tree. The tree was ancient, twisted and weathered with only a few of its leaves remaining. </p><p>She handed me the framed picture and we hung it on the freshly mounted hook. Miss Belivet took a step back with contemplation and directed me which way to level the frame. She stood with her hand on her chin seeming not quite satisfied with her work. “It’s magnificent,” I said, admiring how the shadows told more of the aged tree’s story than did the light. </p><p>Miss Carol, still seated in the green chair, was looking up admiringly, but not at the photo. She was watching my teacher as <em>she </em>considered the picture of the tree. There was a longing that washed over me, creating my own picture: Miss Belivet playing the piano one day while Carol listened from the grandmother chair. </p><p>“This <em>is</em> the place we decided for this photo, over the piano, right?” Miss Belivet turned to Carol.</p><p>“Whatever you like, sweet--” Time stood stupid for seconds and oppressive centuries. We all knew Miss Carol was about to call my teacher sweetheart. “Whatever you like is …fine.” She recovered. I never did. <em>Cruel</em> life indeed.</p><p>Before I move on, I must share one last detail concerning the impact of Miss Belivet’s photographs. The tree would not remain the most memorable of her images. At a later date (I shall perhaps share with you), my young self accidentally stumbled upon a private photo. It was an image of Miss Carol. My first, second and third glances, each lasting longer than the former, reside forever within both hemispheres of my brain, the experience blowing my tiny universe to Sweet High Heaven.  </p><p>I gathered my things after we hung more photos in the main room and hallway: Miss Belivet’s tiny masterpieces of street scenes, buildings and one random, regal black dog. Carol, still in the green chair, sorted through a stack of papers and mail. She could not maintain her state of still frame for long.</p><p>My teacher motioned for me to wait as I approached the door to leave. </p><p>“Ethan could use some help with algebra.”</p><p>“Hmm? Algebra?” Carol said from that distant place she’d wandered off to. “During summer?”</p><p>I explained my summer school oppression and challenges with radical equations. Carol made a joke about the necessity of getting “real and rational” in order to excel in math. I understood the humor immediately; Miss Belivet did not, shaking her head with disinterest and not asking for clarification. Still with preoccupation, I saw Miss Carol stealthily slide a letter from their presumed daily mail to Miss Belivet. My teacher’s face changed, a shadow covering the lightness of her former mood. She set the letter on her lap, covering it with her hands. </p><p>Miss Carol stood. “Well, Mister Ethan, why don’t you bring your math book next time?” She followed me out the door and waved as I walked away. She waited there, outside the door I think, preferring to leave Miss Belivet alone. “See ya, kiddo,” she said.</p><p>On my way down the hall, the little tyrant stuck her head out the neighboring door. I jumped. When I looked over my shoulder, there was Miss Carol standing with one raised, clenched fist, a clear show of solidarity. She smiled. I raised my fist too and stood still for a few seconds just outside the terror’s door.  </p><p>As I left that day, my feet barely touched the floor. I could feel the kid behind me trying to get attention, but this brother in arms never paid her the time of day. I kept on walking proud, all the way out the building and into the brilliant summer day.</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>There was no answer after the initial, shaky push of the <em>Aird/Belivet </em>button. “Please,” I muttered into the empty box and pressed the button a second, third and fourth frantic time. </p><p>I waited. </p><p>Nothing. </p><p>With my face turned into the wet darkness, I thought of where the hell I should go next.</p><p>“Who the FUCK?” A familiar voice came over the return speaker, the sound of her anger crackling into a million shattered bits.</p><p>“Miss Carol.” I was sobbing, leaned back against the cold intercom box, holding onto it, wishing it was her. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I know it’s late..."</p><p>“Ethan? <em>Ethan?</em> Is that you?”</p><p><br/>
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</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This story sees the light of more pages after the commented possibility of a few mental breakdowns (wink) and lovely reader comments about Ethan's story. This reader’s metaphorical images of an incomplete Ethan I share again: “condemned forever to stay between two worlds, like souls who waited forever on the banks of the Styx for their access to the underworld, because Charon refused to take them on his boat.” I thank all of your witty and brilliant comments, thank you for reading and sharing your insights and providing thankful motivation to continue creating this little world. </p><p>An incredible recording of the Brahms Clarinet Sonata No. 2:<br/>https://www.earsense.org/chamber-music/Johannes-Brahms-Clarinet-Sonata-No-2-in-E-flat-major-Op-120-No-2/?v=_szzGJb59Jw1. The first movement, “Amabile,” the Italian word for lovable, seems capable on its own to help the audience member and clarinetist in this story to fall in love. The sonata was written late in Brahms’ life. The final four compositions of his life featured the clarinet. In light of Ethan looking back to tell this story, the composer’s autumnal music is fitting.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. (2x - 2x)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Ethan takes a break from music and tries to apply algebra to life.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>How familiar and comforting her voice sounded, even transmitted over a crackling intercom. Had over three years really passed since the last time I saw her? “Yes,” I answered her shakily, speaking into the cold box, “it’s me. It’s Ethan.” </p><p> </p><p>She responded as expected on this occasion of a rude midnight awakening, surely not convinced of my identity on account of the timbre of a changed voice, deeper in between pathetic, intermittent sobs. No buzz enabled my entry. Of course she was too urban streetwise and wisely untrusting for that. “Okay,” she said, groggy and dazed, but still in her firm, take-charge manner. “Just hold on, I’ll be right there.” </p><p> </p><p>Waiting under the protective eaves of the building near the front door, I wondered if both of them would come down to meet me, two surrogate parents reunited with their estranged son who was presently looking even more like a daughter. I looked out at the street and familiar surroundings. This place, despite my lack of an extensive history with it, still felt like home. The manicured shrubs and the sidewalk near the loading zone produced vivid flickers of my music lessons here, Miss Belivet at the piano, algebraic equations at the dining table with Miss Carol and warm smiles and cold cans of Coca Cola. Occasionally, painful images of the aftermath of the music competition interrupted the serenity. </p><p> </p><p>A car lumbered down the dark street. It shapeshifted into Miss Carol’s sedan pulling an orange moving trailer, the vehicle and cargo sliding up smooth and slow, landing beside the curb where Miss Belivet and I were waiting. It made me think about people: the ones who were <em> supposed </em> to love you unconditionally and the ones who <em> did. </em> And the ones who were supposed to understand you the most, but didn’t. </p><p> </p><p>She was moving quickly when I looked up, coming down the large staircase leading to the apartment entryway, moccasins loosely attached to her feet and a short blue robe tied askew around her body, barely covering her legs. She looked cold with her arms folded tight against her chest, swinging the door open. We looked at each other for several seconds. She looked thinner but striking even in this disheveled state. She recognized me immediately though I was unrecognizable. “Oh. Ethan.” </p><p> </p><p>I dripped with rain and felt pulsing throbs of my swollen face. She reached to pull me inside and I fell hard into her arms.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>My summer days were long, serving out my advanced algebra prison sentence. One Friday morning while working on one of those word problems: <em> Twice a number is 12 less than a second number ... </em> a phone call broke the monotony. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, this is Mrs. Glodowski,” my mother answered. “Hello Miss Belivet. Oh, I see.” The call went on for some time with Mother doing most of the listening. A rarity. She hung up and turned to me. “Your clarinet teacher will be out of town unexpectedly and needs to cancel your next lesson. Talk about short notice.” She scrunched up her small face. “She says her roommate, a <em> PROFESSOR </em> ,” she title-dropped hard, “told you she would help you with your algebra. She’s offered to work with you Saturday instead of your regular music lesson to make up for the short notice. For FREE.” Mother smiled triumphantly as if the circumstances of this arrangement were entirely her idea. “My word, you’re to be on your best behavior. A letter of recommendation from someone like <em> that </em>will come in very handy come college application time.”</p><p> </p><p>She buzzed about the apartment giddy that her son would be in the free company of a professor, continuing with organizing cabinets and drawers, a compulsive preoccupation. </p><p> </p><p>“This woman professor, she must be older?” The quiet never lasted long with Mother.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, she’s older ... than my teacher.”</p><p> </p><p>“And they’re roommates? Hmm, that’s a bit curious, don’t you think?”</p><p> </p><p>“I dunno.”</p><p> </p><p>“Well, just so long as she can help you raise your algebra grade AND eventually write a letter of recommendation, I suppose we shouldn’t care a bean if she’s 25 or 75.” She poured the contents of a junk drawer onto the table and furiously sorted pencils, pens and paper clips from pieces of lint and dried bread crumbs. “Don’t forget about mass this weekend, your father and I insist. You and your sister are both coming. No excuses” </p><p> </p><p>Frank Sinatra’s “Summer Wind,” a favorite of my mother’s, played on the oldies station coming from a small AM/FM radio in the kitchen. She increased the volume and sang with Frank while voraciously continuing her sorting mission. It was impossible to either turn off or out her sing-along. I submitted and listened, not to her, but the song. The big band upbeat swank combined with the wistful story of a fleeting summer romance caused loneliness in me on that summer day, stuck inside with Mother, math and Sinatra. When it ended, I went back to solving for <em>y</em>: Why was I in this family? Why did I feel so different from everyone else? And, why did Saturday with Miss Carol feel so far away?   </p><p> </p><p>Riding the bus to the PROFESSOR’s home, I thumbed through the textbook, <em> Advanced Linear Algebra: Practical Solutions </em>. The book’s introduction promised the subject’s usefulness and my mastery of it by simple repetition. I was skeptical. </p><p> </p><p>Trekking up to the fourth floor it felt odd holding the algebra book rather than my clarinet case. Miss Carol had a book in her hand too when she greeted me, glasses on the edge of her nose and a pencil slipped above her ear. </p><p> </p><p>Entering the apartment it immediately seemed odd being there without Miss Belivet. Atop the piano, music books were neatly stacked; it felt a barren place without her opening those books and accompanying me. </p><p> </p><p>“Ready to solve some problems, kiddo?” Miss Carol winked. </p><p> </p><p>“Sure!” Cue metal grin. “And, um, hey, thanks for helping me. Are you sure it’s not too much of a pain?” </p><p> </p><p>She explained that she wouldn’t have offered if I was a pain and that she was ahead on grading papers and preparing her upcoming lectures. She motioned for me to pull up a chair beside her at the table. “One never can spend enough time in the company of algebra,” she added, rolling up the sleeves of her blue Oxford, “or a new friend.” </p><p> </p><p>Blood rushed to my face. I smiled externally for seconds, internally for weeks. </p><p> </p><p>“So,” she started promptly with the algebra, “what are you having the most trouble with?”</p><p> </p><p><em> Being me, </em>I longed to tell her.</p><p> </p><p>“Linear equations for one,” I said.</p><p> </p><p>“Ah, yes, walking in a straight line can be tiresome.” She grabbed the textbook straightaway and off we went. She looked at the introduction and index briefly as a surgeon might regard the children’s game Operation. I gave her the first word problem that stumped me and she read it first under her breath rapid-fire, muttering things such as “yes, yes” and “I see” before explaining it to me. When her verbal explanation proved insufficient she’d fill a piece of paper with lines and graphs, numbers and letters, the final product resembling an abstract painting. I’d listen and watch, enthralled with how her mind worked. Whenever she handed me the pencil it felt like by turn to drive. And, by the end of the summer I’d be driving it in the algebraic fast lane.</p><p> </p><p>After closing the textbook, I expected Miss Carol to lead me to the door. She didn’t. I sat up straighter and smiled, adjusting my Hello Kitty watch.</p><p> </p><p>“I like the watch,” she said.</p><p> </p><p>I told her how I was teased at school for wearing it.</p><p> </p><p>“People mock what they don’t understand, kitten,” she said and I suffered a quiet little death and wished she’d always call me by that name. She never did.</p><p> </p><p>“Did Miss Belivet have to travel far … for her trip?” God knows where my boldness came from, perhaps <em> her </em>.</p><p> </p><p>“No, not very far.” She was vague. </p><p> </p><p>I sensed her mood turning nomadic and tried to catch up to where her mind seemed inclined to wander off to, likely wherever Miss Belivet was. “I bet you miss her.” Was I out of my mind? At first she appeared uncomfortable by the question. Then by a miracle or other unknown phenomenon, the bolted door between us blew open.</p><p> </p><p>“Miss Belivet went home. She had some family business to attend to.” I was only 15, but I was perceptive enough to detect sarcasm and strain.</p><p> </p><p>Miss Belivet’s home being anyplace other than here perplexed me. “Why didn’t you go with her?”</p><p> </p><p>“Sweetheart, her parents don’t especially … <em> like </em> me.” </p><p> </p><p>“They don’t like <em> you </em>?” </p><p> </p><p>It made her chuckle, her face brightening I supposed at having an ally. She shrugged and began to play with the pencil, her fingers sliding back and forth between the eraser and lead. </p><p> </p><p>“Why do you suppose they don’t?”</p><p> </p><p>She leaned back, still playing with the pencil. “Well, you know, I can be a bit guileless.” </p><p> </p><p>I nodded, clueless. Merriam-Webster would explain later.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you hungry? There must be something a teenager would like in here?” She wandered to the kitchen, her head out of the dark cloud and into the refrigerator.</p><p> </p><p>“Sure,” I said. I knew she was lonely, we both were. And so, I stayed.</p><p> </p><p>We shared a plate of cheese and crackers and sliced green apples before she brought out the giant bag of Oreos and glasses of milk. I’d eaten food exactly like all of it before; it tasted better with her. It felt like we might get drunk on milk and cookies, not talking about math or Miss Belivet’s family or mine. I lovingly watched her twist an Oreo carefully in two before she grinned and went straight for the crème filling.</p><p> </p><p>If only good times lasted longer.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>When I fell into Miss Carol’s arms on that awful winter night, she held onto me, half of her inside the building, half out and the whole of my body anchored against her. Soft chunks of her hair brushed against my cheek and on my lips, a few strands between my teeth. “I’m sorry,” I kept saying it, over and over.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay,” she repeated a different mantra, backing us up, pulling me, her as the engine and me the caboose. We found the comfort of the station in the warmth of the inner building and eventually, together, we ascended the stairs. Her voice steadied me along the course, a flashing beckon in this moment of great personal fog, letting me know with each step that everything would be all right. </p><p> </p><p>The apartment initially looked much the same upon entry. The piano, of course the first place I looked, remained in the same location as did Miss Carol’s desk. Yet, there was an immediate perception that something was very <em> wrong </em>. A lack of order permeated the main rooms. Unwashed dishes and a few take-out containers rested on the kitchen counter and piles of paperwork cluttered the once pristine dining table. Several garments, jackets and sweaters, draped across the backs of dining chairs and other pieces of clothing were lying about. The entirety of Miss Carol’s desk, though I remembered it as customarily messy, emitted a strange, new climate of neglect with stacks of what appeared to be student papers at its center.</p><p> </p><p>“Here, sit,” she guided me to the couch, clearing books from the cushions, a prevailing look of worry on her face. She hurried about the apartment, bringing an ice pack, dry towels and a blanket. “Who the hell did this to you?” She remained standing, her posture indicating a readiness to travel to wherever the responsible party lived in order to kick hell out of <em> him </em> by herself.</p><p> </p><p>I couldn’t tell her the truth, not yet, choking out a fabrication sewn together on the fly. “Just some prick from university.” She didn’t believe me. I knew it by the way she stood there, folded arms, shaking her head with reluctance. This body language told me she’d press for the truth later.</p><p> </p><p>Blinking lights from a small artificial Christmas tree atop the piano flashed in the dimly lit apartment. With my un-iced eye, I saw a bottle of wine on the piano bench beside a single, half empty glass of wine. Looking up from the bench, my eye located the bare wall above the piano. The photo of the tree was gone and I next realized so too was Miss Belivet’s green chair, the one that belonged to her grandmother. Perhaps these items were simply moved to different locations in the apartment. If the piano was still here, Miss Belivet had to be too.     </p><p> </p><p>“Miss Carol?” Apprehensive, I whispered it into the deathly quiet. The only sound I heard was the distant melody of Sinatra’s “Summer Wind.” She remained standing and still, cognizant of my adding up the integers, trying to solve for the missing person in this equation. It was obvious what I wanted to ask, so I didn’t. </p><p> </p><p>She sat down beside me with Christmas lights flashing in her misty eyes. “Miss Belivet,” she said and tried to smile. “… she moved away.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And still the days, those lonely days, they go on and on </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And guess who sighs his lullabies through nights that never end?  </em>
</p><p>~From “Summer Wind” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Never underestimate the power of the wind.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. No. 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The story behind the private photo Ethan saw.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em> One Look Is Worth A Thousand Words </em>. </p><p>The phrase appeared in a 1913 newspaper advertisement for an Ohio auto supply store. Apparently just one look at a rubber tire communicates more about the product’s supremacy than 1000 words yammered by an effusive salesperson or penned by a superfluous writer. The expression has various phrasings, the most applicable to this part of the story: <em> A Picture’s Worth a Thousand Words. </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p>During late summer I was halfway through a music lesson when my teacher received a call, someone buzzing from the front door downstairs. “Whoever could that be?” she lifted her hands from the piano mid-Chopin and excused herself. She spoke into the intercom located on the wall near the apartment’s front door. </p><p>“Terry?” A man’s voice crackled. The manner of his tone was protruding, reminding me inexplicably of a tree branch, the kind that hangs over the sidewalk not visible until you end up stabbed in the eye. He talked fast about music and a borrowed book he wished to drop off, something relating to her graduate studies. “Lucky me, catching you home,” his presumption created an obvious irritation in my teacher. She stared into the ceiling while shaking her head, appearing to communicate grievances to her maker. <em> Yeah, lucky me. </em> I read her unspoken sarcastic thoughts as I am not only a voracious reader of books but also faces. Seeing her reaction produced a deep and mutual understanding of a difficulty in telling people <em> No </em>. </p><p>Miss Belivet explained that she was in the middle of a student lesson and able to spare only a moment to grab the items. After ending the transmission, her voice stretched thin as it did when her family phoned earlier in the summer. She promised to make up lost lesson time from the intrusion. “Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes ... then again, this <em> guy </em> ,” she leaned her back against the wall, he talks … and talks <em> SO much </em>.” She lingered, briefly sharing the caller’s backstory. Our roles switched temporarily. Miss Belivet played client and I acted as her therapist, nodding as she described the waiting pest, a classmate who weeks ago she included in a small study group at the apartment. Despite his exceptional music skills and initial niceties, she ended up finding him forward and persistent. The untrained therapist in me diagnosed anger, the kind that turns inward on kind, acquiescing people. She asked me to rescue her if she was not back upstairs in ten minutes.</p><p>“Yes, all right,” I smiled and theatrically checked my “kitten” watch for the current time, glad to assist her in this and any subsequent covert operations.</p><p>After the door shut, I stayed seated, fighting an initial instinct to play the piano as it was a much nicer instrument than the out of tune clunker at school. In time, I wandered to the bookshelves where my hands rode the wave of spines, some smooth or protected by slippery plastic jackets, others textured, bumpy as braille. I perused a few titles, recalling many from the afternoon of shelving with Miss Belivet. A faded brown book, more weathered than the rest, drew my attention. Strands of binding thread hung from leather spine edges, its location meaningful at the halfway point between their libraries. I pulled it out with caution, revealing its title slowly, a book I did not remember shelving. <em> One Hundred and One Famous Poems </em>. I carried it to the piano bench where I sat to open it with utmost care. It creaked, an arthritic moan expanding in feasible protest of my intrusion. </p><p>The first thing I noticed was my teacher’s writing inscribed on the inside cover. I recognized her unassuming letters as printed in kind within the margins of my lesson books. </p><p>
  <em>For Carol  - Christmas 1987.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Here’s the 1958 version of the book you’ve been looking for that you had as a young girl. I hope you’ll read me your favorites sometime, perhaps before I fall to sleep. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Yours, Therese </em>
</p><p>My intention was to look only at the book’s poetry. This was impossible as the more pages turned, the more other things were overturned. The nature of the book became clear as a place they kept mementos. Various bookmarks to save favorite poems, air travel, movie and concert stubs mixed with pressed leaves and a few small dried flowers and clovers, programs from Miss Belivet’s recitals, including Brahms. The more pages I turned, the more I could not stop. </p><p>I knew. I should. Stop. </p><p>Beautiful cards existed within the pages, many with painted wild flowers and letters tucked away between the words of Dickinson and Longfellow. Loose bits of stationery too floated without the protection of envelopes, salutations began letters to each other with terms of endearments <em> My Love </em> and <em> Sweetheart.  </em></p><p>A powerful dread soon descended, realizing my teacher may return at any moment. I checked the time and clocked the mere two minutes remaining until my call of duty. I rushed toward the shelves, shutting the book with a hard clap. It released something, sending it airborne. The paper airplane of an object jettisoned out of the book and slid across a slippery wooden floor of a runway, traveling toward the piano where it hit a leg and ricocheted sideways before spinning on the floor, facedown. </p><p>I’ve never moved faster, bending down to pick it up, a photograph, its back side stamped with <em>This Paper Manufactured by</em> <em>Kodak </em>and <em>Carol 1988</em> written in my teacher’s hand. </p><p>I turned it over.</p><p>One look at the black and white image produced in me a gasping breathlessness that exited my young, aching soul. Time obliterated into a thousand words of poetry, one thousand notes of melody and one thousand hours of my terminal silence.</p><p>Miss Carol was unposed, seated in the grandmother chair, wearing only an untied robe, a book and glasses in her hand. She wasn’t smiling or even looking at the camera, rather, with sad longing, her head tilted so slightly, I knew she only had eyes for the photographer, some of herself revealed against the heavy implication of a complete exposure. One upper thigh and not enough shadow to cover curves and drifts of sandy white flesh between dark shadows that suggested places that were only her business and my teacher’s. </p><p>My heart pounded as I raced to put the photo back, not knowing from which pages it belonged. Randomly I slipped it to rest upon page 76 beside a poem by Burroughs entitled “Waiting.”</p><p> </p><p>I flew down the stairs, reaching the operation not a minute late. Miss Belivet was standing near a grinning man who wore a bowtie that I did not much like and khakis. AND, Miss Carol was there too, though not there at all, standing off to the side. I sensed her impatience immediately, caught coming home with her leather work bag over her shoulder and a tiredness of objectivity that cut a necessary line between my teacher and the man. He introduced himself too eagerly to me. “Hello sport,” he said and peered cordially at me through round spectacles. “I’m Tommy. I hear you play clarinet. I’m a bassoonist.” </p><p>“Hey, I’m Ethan,” I semi-waved and moved to stand where Miss Carol was. I suppose the action was my taking a stand with her. Since spending time together over algebra, we’d grown close. “Hi,” I beamed at her despite an embarrassment at seeing her so soon after just <em> seeing </em> her. She winked and took my hand and squeezed it.</p><p>“Well,” she said to the woodwinders who stood near the doorway, “we must be going.” Still holding my hand she walked with me directly in between them and into the building.  </p><p>“Nice meeting everyone,” the man said, adding one final buzz, "and Terry, let me know when you’re free for coffee.”</p><p>Miss Belivet soon caught up to us. “I’m so sorry, Ethan,” she said with crushing sincerity.</p><p>“It’s okay,” I answered, no longer holding anyone’s hand. </p><p> </p><p>At the top of the last flight of stairs, just before the hallway door to their apartment, Miss Carol stopped and turned to my teacher. “You need to learn how to make bassoonists leave sooner.”</p><p>“I know,” Miss Belivet said. She looked absolutely forlorn.</p><p>Standing between them I felt sorry for my teacher. I also knew Carol was right.</p><hr/><p> </p><p>Sitting near the missing tree photo, absent green chair and tiny blinking Christmas lights that occasionally revealed new lines in Miss Carol’s face, I momentarily forgot my own injuries. “She moved away?” I said, still that young boy who needed her help with understanding complicated algebraic equations. </p><p>"Yes, I’m sorry, Ethan.” She pulled her robe tighter around her bare legs.</p><p>“When?” I said, not wanting to believe it.</p><p>The room grew small when her voice broke. “One hundred and one very <em> long </em> ,” she stopped and I could feel her losing battles. “ <em> Days </em>” she finished. We gently switched places and I became the one who came here to help her. I reached for her hand and squeezed it hard and finally, she let herself cry. </p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Resolutions develop, like old school film, slowly.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. No. 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>We agreed that my injuries weren’t serious enough to seek medical assistance, aside from the ice and aspirin Miss Carol provided. She brought clean linens and we made up the sofa, a place for me to sleep beside the piano and blinking Christmas lights. “We’ll talk about everything in the morning,” she said after we’d both hit a wall of numbness at our separate predicaments. After I consoled her over her own loss, I felt she wanted to confide more details. The nature of our relationship and passage of time since last meeting kept things floating out of reach and it was after all, <strong><span class="u">I</span></strong> who came here seeking refuge. </p><p>She reminded me of the location of her room and the toilet and that I should feel at home and help myself to food and wake her if anything about my condition changed. It was code for: let me know if you’re freaking out. I wondered how much she was freaking out considering my status as a  former student of her estranged lover who showed up after three years unannounced on her doorstep. “Shall I turn off the Christmas lights?” she asked before going to bed.</p><p>“No. Please leave them on.”</p><p>“All right,” she smiled and I felt I was that kid again and wished she’d kiss my head or move a few strands of long hair from my puffy eyes. “Good night,” she said and backed toward her room with long arms wrapped tightly around her center, her own eyes red and puffy too from sharing the somber news of Miss Belivet’s departure. I heard the squeaking of hinges as she closed her bedroom door.</p><p>I changed into the night clothes she provided, sweats and a tee shirt, and stretched out on the long, soft furniture with my brain spitting flashbacks of the night I endured. Gradually the disturbing images  extinguished within the growing comfort of being here. Back <em> here </em>. From where I was situated, I faced Miss Carol’s desk and the built-in bookshelves. Intermittent tree lights illuminated the library that had grown in length and height since my last visit. Though sleep was near, I needed to know if the poetry portal still existed, safely on the shelf waiting for Miss Belivet and waiting too, I decided in a moment of great clarity, to assist me in unlocking the pitiable matter that became of them.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>“Ethan, I can’t imagine you improving the Chopin piece anymore if you tried,” Miss Belivet complimented my final progress at our last practice before the competition. We ran through the Etude, pretending I was performing it for  judges and an audience. </p><p>Miss Carol, seated in the green chair by the piano, acted as a mock audience member and she clapped with gusto. “Bravo, encore!” She stood and made exaggerated gestures as though attending a sporting event. It was all tongue and cheek and yet, how very red with happiness my own cheeks. “Does he need an encore piece?” she leaned in toward my teacher as if strategizing my competitive pre-game advantage. It was one of the more frequently occurring times in their presence I felt a warmth at the fairytale concept of them as my parents rather than teachers. </p><p>Often, lying in bed in my own unhappy home with the pressure to excel a noose tightening around me, mind escape transported me into the recounting of happy memories with them. The images often grew fantastically into the surreal, the three of us at family dinners or attending movies. Family vacations were my favorite fantasy, road trips, our preferred getaway with me allowed to sit up front, beside Miss Carol. My job was to manage the route, a map of California or Canada stretched out clear across both knees. I’d feed the driver the steps just in time. The journey was recorded by Miss Belivet’s photographs and once in a while I’d take the camera she taught me to use expertly. My images were the two of them: walking on the beach or sitting on a bench, Miss Carol’s hand always on my teacher’s knee.</p><p> </p><p>“Goodness, Carol,” my teacher cutely amused at the suggestion that I bring an encore piece of music to the competition. My eyes met my teacher’s in the good-natured ribbing of Miss Carol knowing nothing of how music competitions operated. “Don’t be silly,” Miss Belivet pinched Carol’s arm despite my overwhelming sense that she wanted to tickle and chase her around the room with much less restrained physicality. My reaction was devious delight, watching and smiling from the sidelines, feeling their happiness like incoming waves you try to avoid while walking at the beach, the waves you secretly wish would pull you out into the roaring power of the sea. “He’ll be judged on his performance of this one piece. It’s not a concert. An encore? Really Carol?” She laughed harder, the sound produced coming out in adorable snorts. </p><p>“Get a hold of yourself,” Miss Carol said, her own laughter subdued in the most wicked manner. She bent down and to my great surprise kissed my teacher on the top of her head. I couldn’t help but see how both of them closed their eyes in that flicker, lips making contact and a few of Miss Belivet’s fingers grazing across the other’s arm. “There should be an encore, dear Ethan, no matter what Miss Serious Music Pants here says. You’ve worked hard.” Carol moved away from the piano and the tender scene I longed would continue and permit my witnessing just how their bodies expressed what my heart knew simmered internally. </p><p>“I’ve made a little good luck treat in your honor,” Miss Carol said from the kitchen. “Let us eat Encore Cake!”</p><p>The rest of the visit was as close to family fantasy as selfish reality permits. It was drenched in chocolate cake and talk of music, books, Miss Belivet’s grandmother and the day they met at the Brahms recital. It was as good as a beautiful dream that still visits the darkest nights, the memory of it like resounding applause for well-deserved efforts and echoes of laughter and that most merciful call for more: “Bravo and encore. Please.” </p><p>If only that fateful day in September 1988 never came. The Annual American High School Woodwinds music competition nightmare.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p>I wandered to the bookshelves, backlit by the Christmas lights, my recollections leading me to touch familiar spines, seeking out ironic and complementary titles within their collections such as <em> Minor Economies of Scale </em> and <em> Major Musical Scale Studies </em> located during one of my final visits here. Quickly it became apparent that none of Miss Belivet’s books were here. A vapid space of emptiness seemed to stretch out beyond the edge of Carol’s library, more an implication of her loss than the absence of books. Up and down and sideways I searched for <em> 101 Famous Poems </em> needed for 101 clues. Slumped back on the sofa, I was nearly defeated. Something made my eyes wander, as if guided by divine intervention, perhaps Miss Belivet’s grandmother’s tarot cards inspiring a compass of stars to lead me well. The poetry book came slowly into view, sitting atop the piano at a dark corner edge and barely visible between intermittent twinkling. Alongside 101 new reasons for me to hope I also found an empty, open compact disc holder on the piano --  a recording of the Brahms sonata. “Oh, dear Miss Heartbroken Carol. How many times have you replayed those memories?”</p><p>Opening the large book, I worked quickly in case Miss Carol was to stir or come out to check on me. The book groaned upon its opening, distended like a portly old gentleman with added layers of new letters, notes and memories scattered amongst the poetry. Automatically my hands sought out page number 76, eager for another <em> look </em>at the waiting photograph of “naked” Carol. </p><p>It was gone. I continued skimming pages speedily until reaching the conclusion that the photo was not in this book. Although I did not know exactly where the photo was, there was no doubt in whose possession it resided. I drifted to sleep with a buoyancy knowing who looked at that photo at least 101 times since walking out this apartment door.  </p><p> </p>
<p></p><blockquote>
<p></p><blockquote><p>WAITING</p><p>
      <b>
        <em>by: John Burroughs (1837-1921)</em>
      </b>
    </p><p> </p></blockquote></blockquote><dl>
<dt>
<em></em>ERENE, I fold my hands and wait,</dt>
<dt>Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;</dt>
<dt>I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,</dt>
<dt>For, lo! my own shall come to me.</dt>

<dt>I stay my haste, I make delays,</dt>
<dt>For what avails this eager pace?</dt>
<dt>I stand amid the eternal ways,</dt>
<dt>And what is mine shall know my face.</dt>

<dt>Asleep, awake, by night or day,</dt>
<dt>The friends I seek are seeking me;</dt>
<dt>No wind can drive my bark astray,</dt>
<dt>Nor change the tide of destiny.</dt>

<dt>What matter if I stand alone?</dt>
<dt>I wait with joy the coming years;</dt>
<dt>My heart shall reap where it hath sown,</dt>
<dt>And garner up its fruit of tears.</dt>

<dt>The waters know their own and draw</dt>
<dt>The brook that springs in yonder height;</dt>
<dt>So flows the good with equal law</dt>
<dt>Unto the soul of pure delight.</dt>

<dt>The stars come nightly to the sky;</dt>
<dt>The tidal wave unto the sea;</dt>
<dt>Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,</dt>
<dt>Can keep my own away from me.</dt>
</dl>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Two short chapters rather than a single long feels right tonight. Peace in the coming week.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. No. 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are turning points in every story, places in time one wishes to revisit for the unattainable chance of a do-over or in this case, a never do at all. Yet, the music competition was a goal, an essential reason for my lessons with Miss Belivet in the first place. Deep down I knew the fairytale of her wouldn’t last and still I ignored the distant whistles of the approaching locomotives. Damn. What a train wreck. </p><p> </p><p>“Family photo with Ethan,” my mother said. She fumbled in her purse looking for one of her inexpensive disposable cameras. “Dan, ask a stranger to take our pic-cha,” her Bronx accent flowed heavy when she spoke to my father, a reminder of their long history in this place. He  stood off to the side, as he usually did, already bored by a photo opportunity and the very prospect of an afternoon listening to high school kids blow air against wooden reeds. I wanted to dispose of the photo idea too, embarrassed standing where Mother made me, by the school’s outdoor event reader board that announced the competition. “Just one of Ethan first,” my mother took a picture of me holding my clarinet case by the sign. It came out blurry because I moved my head too much, looking for Miss Belivet who I was expected to meet soon in the lobby. </p><p>My father never got around to asking anyone to take a family photo, so there’s just the one blurry picture of the whole event.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>The apartment smelled of toast and fresh eggs when I awoke, the curtains open to reveal large snowflakes falling fast outside the large paned windows. Squinting, I made out the vague image coming into focus of Miss Carol in the kitchen, her hair pulled back smartly and wearing professional attire: dress slacks and a cashmere sweater. I sat up on the sofa, noting how the apartment was more orderly than when I arrived unannounced last night. </p><p>“Morning sleepy,” she slid a breakfast plate onto the table. “I should say afternoon,” she corrected herself and sat down in a dining chair and motioned for me to join her at the round table. She explained her schedule as I approached and her needing to get to the office to submit final semester grades. “I have time to chat first.” She raised an eyebrow. </p><p>“I’m not hungry,” I said.</p><p>“Eat, you’ll feel better.” She pointed to the plate. The first bite was soft and warm and comforting, the plate’s delicious contents devoured in an embarrassingly short time span with her lips twisting up into a self-satisfied “told ya so” smile. </p><p>“Tell me about school.” It appeared she would gently ease us back into the circumstances of last night.</p><p>I explained where I landed, a small upstate college that fit my family’s main requirement: free. “I like it okay,” I said without divulging what I liked most about school: not living at home. </p><p>“You should be proud of getting a scholarship. And your studies?” It began to feel like a job interview and I longed the casual air of when she used to hand me a Coke, explain complex fractions or find a novel off her shelf for me to devour. She leaned back a bit, waiting for my response about my studies, her expression of a serious and interested father type. My mind fashioned a long, curved pipe that she put it in her mouth and blew one beautiful smoke ring that floated between us. </p><p>“I’m a math major,” I said and laughed for the first time since arriving, giving her a full view of my straight teeth without the metal. It hurt my face to tell her of my studies, the sting of bruised flesh when I smiled with a little egg on my face considering my history of complaining to her about algebra. </p><p>“Well,” her voice lifted, “something good came of algebra.” </p><p>I considered not telling her about the rest of my studies. She seemed to be waiting for something more so I suppose she knew. “And there’s a minor too,” I said and played with toast crumbs on my plate, “... music.”</p><p>Her reaction was complex, brightened eyes and a face turned away, momentarily hiding the understanding that my minor study was a blatant reminder of her major loss. “What a wonderful combination,” she looked back at me with a painful doubled meaning.</p><p>We didn’t float in the relative safe harbors of my studies for long. Boldly she reached for the tiller of a rickety vessel we currently seemed to share. Cranking the wheel hard, Captain Carol navigated toward the battered winds of my troubled seas. </p><p>“Ethan, who did this to you?” She meant of course the smashed condition of my face though the question felt open-ended and significant of an accumulation of underlying bruises. </p><p>She waited there in the initially wide berth, pouring us tea and handing me another pack of ice before resuming her objective position seated in the captain’s chair across from me. </p><p>“It was just a bad scene.” I pushed the ice closer against my face. “And ... afterward ... I finally tried to explain how I feel so damned <em>different</em>. Sometimes people aren’t ready to hear what they already know.” </p><p>She gave a minimalistic nod, the rest of her body rigid. In her stillness a tamed anger rumbled in some oil-leaked engine room where she tinkered madly beneath the surface of the waves. How little was required of my useless words, she filled in the empty spaces between the lines of the difficult paint by numbers picture that was my life and in places hers too. “Sometimes I look at my hands,” I told her, hoping she would understand the disconnected way I often felt, “and they seem borrowed. Like they’re somebody else’s hands. You know?”</p><p>“Not entirely, Sweetheart.” She never lied, not even to make me feel less alien. “I imagine that would be very confusing,” she added, moving closer just by the small tilt of her head </p><p>“Yes,” I said accustomed to a state of confusion.</p><p>We sat together a while longer. The snow fell harder outside and so did the quiet, the loudest sound in the apartment, the refrigerator working to keep things chilled. I could feel her gradually rising impatience, wanting me to get the hell on with confiding my offender’s identity.</p><p>“It was him, yeah?’ She was quite done messing about. Her mouth tightened into the shape of a coiled spring, stretched out and ready to snap.</p><p>Our eyes met and I didn’t feel quite so afraid of the truth anymore.</p><p>“The Fucking Bastard,” her fingertips dug into the smooth tabletop like she planned to wield the piece of solid maple into a better weapon: a baseball bat. “I’m calling the cops,” she rose. “Should have done it last night.”</p><p>“Please, Miss Carol. Don’t.” </p><p>Her body remained inert, considering her options: what she wanted to do versus what I needed her to do. Reluctant, she sat back down, relegated to the bench. I sensed great forces inside of her running full circles around all the bases, screaming with her bat swinging wild.</p><p>“You’re staying here as long as you like,” she said and squeezed my hand. “I’ll leave the rest up to you,” her eyes narrowed a cold warning, “for <em>now</em>.” </p><p>I thanked her and explained my current status on holiday break through the New Year. She offered me the sanctuary of her spare room and I wholeheartedly accepted, no greater kindness ever offered me since.  </p><p>She pushed back her chair, getting ready to leave. </p><p>“Where’s Miss Belivet?” My foreign hands reached for the spokes of our ship’s wheel and without warning set a course toward her own washed up personal life. Could she hear me yelling “Coming About!” over the crashing ocean waves? </p><p>The new heading startled her enough to produce an audible response: the release of fractional inches of cumulative breaths she’d held for 101 days. “Back to her … <em>home,</em>” she said without veiling shards of bitterness at Miss Belivet’s inferred betrayal. How difficult it was for her to say the word home. This Home, the only one I ever knew of my teacher, echoed with the silent piano, empty walls where photos once hung and the faint whispers of Miss Belivet’s grandmother, her spirit shuffling tarot cards on the wood floor near where the green chair should be. Feverishly, I summoned the ancestor’s apparition to try harder at laying down the proper cards of wands and swords and pentacles, the necessary instruments to bring Miss Belivet back <em>home</em>. </p><p>“Why did she leave?” I mounted my own knightly horse card, sharp wand held high. She pushed my cup of tea closer, it rattled, causing a small splash to spill over the edges. I’d pressed too far.</p><p>“Sorry,” she said of the spill and likely <span class="u">not</span> her evasiveness, getting up for a dish towel to wipe it with. “Drink the tea,” she said with a firm voice and hands too that wiped in small, deliberate circles around the liquid, a body language of an erected wall. </p><p>Learning the circumstances of Miss Belivet’s leaving weren’t yet in the cards and I’d already crossed a number of lines coming here. My own reading of the tea leaves would require other forms of discovery. </p><p>Miss Carol sat back on the hard wooden chair across from me. Her professional visage dropped away into my recollection of the <em>Worth a Thousand Words</em> photograph. Stunning and raw, a robe draped loose around her body, opening just enough so that she too didn’t require voicing the painful specifics of why her lover left. I instinctively colored in the necessary hues between the lines enough to know for now, without a doubt, the fracture’s general causation. Miss Belivet failed in some way to say No to the right people.</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” Miss Carol stood and gathered her things and advised me to rest while she was out for the remainder of the day. She promised to return with pizza by six. </p><p>“Great,” I said. “Thank you. Yes, resting sounds good.” But I had other plans. </p><p> </p><p>The door hardly shut behind her and the poetry portal opened to me, ignoring boundaries and my own good sense of privacy in order to get a better picture of what the hell happened to them. It was time to turn this broken ship around.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. No. 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>More details shared about Miss Belivet’s recital and Ethan’s music competition.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Beyond the large front window of Miss Carol’s apartment snow continued to accumulate. I watched a few kids making a snowman, the city turning into a Norman Rockwell holiday painting before my swollen eyes. Beneath this beautiful winter scene my own ugly personal issues lurked. A call home to my parents was necessary to communicate my status as neither dead nor missing. I owed them nothing more. </p><p>Despite my limited time spent here and its tragic termination years ago, this apartment felt more like home than my alleged home. Easily I accepted Miss Carol’s kind offer that morning to stay in the guest room as long as needed. <em> Forever </em>. Realistically, through my university winter break. </p><p>Drawn toward the piano, I placed my hands there briefly and pecked out a few of the introductory notes from the Chopin etude Miss Belivet taught me. Nostalgic pangs formed as did speculation about what it meant that my teacher left her instrument behind. My short-term goal over my school break was clear: set aside my own demons and assist two lost angels.</p><p>Miss Carol’s plan of not returning from her office for several hours provided an opportunity to, let me state it bluntly. Snoop. First, I opened the oversized poetry book that settled easily on my lap. Invading it felt as criminal as the first time. Yet, was I not here to solve a crime? And, dear reader, I anticipate your judgment or forgiveness when I divulge that I read every letter. Moreover, my guilty feet ventured willingly into Miss Carol’s bedroom after that reading in search of additional clues. </p><p>With each page turned, the poetry book came to resemble an archaeological dig site, layers of their history buried in between the pages, artifacts requiring a dusting off. The excavation promised a better understanding of the pivotal events that caused their cataclysmic fracture.  </p><p>The first clues came in the form of boarding passes, miles shared, trips to eclectic destinations: Hamburg, Tahiti, Montreal … The travel frequency slackened over time with only a set of train stubs for the current year, 1991, to Reading, PA. </p><p>While gathering their letters, pulling them from within the pages, I stumbled upon the hallowed ground of their meeting, a significant artifact that marked the origin of their story. A program saved from Miss Belivet’s recital was folded in half toward the front of the book. I unfolded it carefully and read each word of it, a flood of the recital details they shared with me years ago as we feasted on encore cake before the dreadful music competition. Their recollections on that most splendid of days opened the doors of the theatre and I took a seat in a red upholstered chair beside Miss Carol and waited for Miss Belivet to appear on stage.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Woodwinds Graduate Recital Series </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> New York University School of Music </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Frederick Loewe Theatre </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> December 11, 1987, 7pm </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Therese Belivet Performs  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Brahms Clarinet Sonata No. 2 in E-Flat Major </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I - Allegro amabile </em>
</p><p>
  <em> II - Allegro appassionato </em>
</p><p>
  <em> III - Andante con moto - Allegro </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Could you tell me about how you met at Miss Belivet’s recital?” The voice of my younger self inside my head in crescendo as I read the program, recounting the story they shared about the evening Miss Belivet performed three movements of one of the most tender pieces of music ever written for her instrument. </p><p>I took another piece of encore cake and waited for them to share more. They eyed each other, silently calibrating, I suspect, who should begin indulging the eager young guest sitting across from them with chocolate cake stuck to his braces. </p><p>“Technically, we met <em> after </em> the recital,” Miss Belivet smiled, her cheeks red with bashfulness that came over her when she was the central part of a conversation. Miss Carol nodded her corroboration of the technicality, a faraway glimmer in her eyes, perhaps reimagining being taken captive in that concert hall.</p><p>They explained how that first meeting was an accident, though one could argue that even accidents are fateful. Miss Carol attended the recital because she saw a flier for the recital after sliding on ice. The flier was posted at an outdoor college bulletin board, a kiosk near the economics building. “I usually avoid looking at those silly boards,” she said, “they’re a mess plastered with ads for roommates or some awful heavy metal garage band concert.”</p><p>The campus was icy on that December day and Miss Carol fell straightaway on her bottom, right in front of the kiosk. “When I got back up, the recital flier caught my attention, like it was the only posting. There were images printed too on the top of it -- a clarinet and music symbols, I think. It reminded me of my youth playing the saxophone badly and I decided on a whim to attend.”</p><p>“Actually, they were treble clefs on the flier, not clarinets,” Miss Belivet clarified.</p><p>“Treble? More like trouble,” Miss Carol winked at me before her eyes found my teacher and rested against her pensively.</p><p>“Cool,” I said in response. How ironic, this foreshadowing of their real troubles ahead.</p><p>Miss Carol attended the recital alone. “I sat toward the back,” she said, “in the middle section of the theatre. Well, at first anyway. When the clarinet was tuning to the piano, I moved up a few rows.” </p><p>“Why did you move?” I asked, falling hard under the story’s spell.</p><p>“Because of that first … note.” Her eyes dropped to the side uncomfortably, probably second guessing revealing parts of her heart to an enamored dumb kid. She became silent after describing her decision to move closer to the stage and I knew better than pressing for details about the things she left out, things such as her response to seeing my teacher in soft light with red velvet curtains behind her and a grand piano beside her. I understood that even teachers are limited in their ability to explain concepts like forever and love at first sight. </p><p>“Miss Belivet, could you see people in the audience?” my backdoor inquiry if she noticed Carol.</p><p>“No, I was too focused on remembering the music.”</p><p>“She played mostly with her eyes closed anyway.” Miss Carol said and I came to wonder how much a certain audience member’s own eyes closed during the performance.</p><p>Miss Belivet moved with haste beyond the particulars of her performance and jumped directly into the matter of their meeting. “Miss Carol came backstage and wanted to personally tell me how much she enjoyed the recital.”</p><p>It seemed to me that “enjoyed” was likely an understatement.</p><p>“Well, I <em> tried </em> to tell her backstage,” Miss Carol made an expression akin to a wet towel being wrung out, twisted dry. “There were too many buzzing fans back there. I didn’t stand a chance.”</p><p>The brush strokes concerning the admirers were large, the fine details sparse. I came to understand that one of Miss Belivet’s music instructors monopolized her time after the concert and a few younger men, including her pianist. They formed what I imagine was an informal circle, congratulating her I presume with intentions to one day, or that day, ask her out. Miss Carol stood near a pile of music stands and chairs, off to the side, waiting for even a quick word and hopeful introduction. </p><p>“Miss Belivet, did you see her waiting there?” I just needed to know.</p><p>“Oh, yes,” my teacher’s face gave off subtle little sparks, flint hitting steel. “I was very curious who in the world she was."</p><p>“Or from what planet I came?” Miss Carol's self-deprecating comment made me laugh the hardest. </p><p>“When I looked up again," Miss Belivet continued, "at the place where she was standing," our collective smiles fading after Miss Carol’s humorous comment, “she was just gone.”</p><p>I was visibly disappointed and shook my head. “Oh, man,” I said. </p><p>“Yes, exactly,” Miss Carol agreed, “too many men in suits.” She offered me more cake. </p><p>I sat farther on the edge of my seat, was close to falling, dying for more of their story, <em> not </em> cake. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>On the day of the music competition I excused myself from the blurry family photo op and headed toward the auditorium lobby where I was to meet my teacher. It was a noisy place filled with woodwind players from surrounding high schools registering for the event. The room was flooded with morning light streaming in from the floor to ceiling glass windows. Various tables lined the perimeter of the lobby, the location for registration according to last name. I couldn’t find Miss Belivet so I went to the Gee-Jay table and waited. Most of the students, like me, were in line alone, others with a friend. A few of the particularly nerdy students were attached to a hovering parent. I was thankful my parents were nowhere in sight. Mother likely already scoped out a good pair of seats up front in the auditorium and my father was certainly outside already on the first of many smoke breaks. </p><p>“Hello,” a voice came from behind me. Initially I hoped it was my teacher. “Have you seen Miss Belivet yet?” It was the girl, the overly confident other clarinet student, the one who I saw during the summer waltzing down the hallway of my teacher’s apartment like she owned the building and all of its commoner occupants. She stood beside me, her clarinet case swinging at her side. She was bored out of her mind, looking around the place for someone more popular than me. God, she was such an insufferable snob.</p><p>“No, haven’t seen her yet,” I said wondering why the hell she was so much taller than me. “Did you register yet?” My first mistake was continuing the conversation.</p><p>“Of course, silly,” she said, smacking a piece of gum and pointing to her name tag, the one you apparently received after registering. “Duh!” she said and looked even harder for higher social ground to mount, her swinging clarinet case bashing into my leg. </p><p>I nodded and looked straight ahead hoping she was finished with me.</p><p>“She’s a lezzy, you know that, right?” </p><p>“Excuse me?” I looked at her, shocked, trying to comprehend the toxicity that came out of the clear blue sky, the place where people like her pretend to dwell.</p><p>“Miss Belivet, brain power,” she said, followed by another overemphasized “Duh!”</p><p>I was speechless, picturing my hot, clenched fist coming out of my own thunder clapping gray-blue skies to knock both the shit and front fucking teeth out of her, rendering <em> her </em>speechless and unable to play the clarinet for a very long time.</p><p>“Did you HEAR me?” She wouldn’t let it go.</p><p>“I heard you all right,” I said imagining her bloody front teeth littering the floor.</p><p>“That woman she lives with, the <em> blonde </em>,” suggestive implications in the lewd raising of her eyes, “surely you’ve seen her, right?” </p><p>“Yeah,” I said, equally numb and outraged. It’s painful to admit I didn’t walk away from the bestial girl.</p><p>She paused for some dumbass dramatic effect, the way misguided people think they are interesting and powerful, leaning closer to me. “They’re <em> doing </em> it,” she whispered, “and I bet Miss Belivet is on bottom.”</p><p>I backed away from a demon, my ears and face and hands about to go from red to blue-flaming-hot-fire. “Go screw yourself,” I said, courage and profanity straight out of the clearest of blue heavenly skies, angels at my back. </p><p>“Jeez, take a chill pill,” she looked me up and down, a dismissive twist of her nose, misjudging me and my shiny ass dress shoes and stupid clip-on black tie standing up to her. “Hmph,” she made a mocking sound and clicked her gum before waltzing off with a perfect little nose held high. <em> Bottoms up, Bitch! </em></p><p>Miss Belivet found me a few minutes after I registered, still numb from my recent troubling interaction. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. It was strange seeing her so soon after the disparaging comments about her personal life. It made me wish I expressed stronger damnation from the bottom of my aching heart to defend two cases of true love. “I need to find my other student so we can all go over the order of performances, I’ll be accompanying her as well.” She looked around the lobby. “Do you know her, Jenny Briggs?” </p><p>“I only know her face.” <em> Two-faced windbag </em>. “She’s around here somewhere,” I said looking at my shiny shoes. </p><p>“TERRY!” A loud and familiar voice made us both turn. The bow-tied bassoonist descended on us, the guy who buzzed my teacher during one of my lessons, sans invitation. He stood beside Miss Belivet with his hand large upon the small real estate of her shoulder, permanent grin on his face. “Ah, yes,” he said looking at me, “I remember you, Johnny was it?” </p><p>I frowned and thought about a line in a novel I read once:  <em> Life sometimes feels like a party where you’re trapped, listening to everyone in the room except the ONE person you want to talk to. </em></p><p>“No,” Miss Belivet sounded perturbed, “his name is Ethan, my most gifted clarinet student.” She took a step closer to me and I could feel her trying to plot our brilliant escape.  </p><p>“Oh, yes, good to see you Ethan.” His grin grew too wide given the circumstances of our meeting only once and his not remembering my name.</p><p>“I’m here to watch one of my private lesson students perform as well.” The smitten way he looked at my teacher, exposed his foolish ulterior motives. </p><p>“Well,” Miss Belivet said without clarifying that she was not simply here to listen, performing piano accompaniment for her two students. She glanced at the lobby doors nervously and I assumed she was once again looking for the demon girl. Later, I learned with quiet elation that Carol was expected to arrive …to hear ME play. My teacher likely watched for her, dreading a repeat performance of the last time the gasbag bassoonist overplayed his social welcome. </p><p> </p><p>In the end, the bassoon was only a bit player in the approaching music competition train wreck. Miss Carol’s arrival ultimately contributed the most to the train reaction, a meteoric convergence of people and circumstances, cars piling up behind a runaway locomotive. Sometimes when I close my eyes tight enough, I can still hear those angry train whistles blow.</p><hr/><p> </p><p>After the clarinet recital of 1987, Miss Carol waited amongst stacks of dusty chairs and music stands, losing her gumption steam the longer she watched Miss Belivet and her admirers. She finally slipped away, out the backstage door before exiting the Frederick Loewe Theatre. I imagine the theatre's large, ornate metal lobby doors closing with a heavy thud and her fleeing silhouette taking off into the cold night. </p><p>Miss Carol stepped through the snowy streets, taking her sweet time, wanting to avoid a second or third fall of the day. Tender muscles from her slipping onto her backside earlier in the day reminded her of another recent misstep. She walked with a preoccupation of the night’s music: movements one, two and three drifting into her thoughts. </p><p>Turning the corner a block from the theatre, she heard footsteps behind her and the crunch of snow. </p><p>“Excuse me.” A soft voice floating above the cold. Miss Carol turned around.</p><p>In black concert dress, improper shoes and no coat, it was my teacher, trying hard to catch her breath. </p><p>They stood in the cold, snow falling all around them, not saying anything for what they both said felt like a very long time.</p><p> </p><p>My teacher finally got the nerve to speak again.</p><p> </p><p>“Were you waiting for me?”</p><p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. No. 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Trains and train wrecks.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I boarded a train on a cold December morning, thankful to locate a window seat, watching the landscape change, crowds of people and my own problems in NYC disappearing in a locomotion headed west, in the direction of Reading, PA and my estranged teacher. </p><p>The chain of events that put me on the rails began several days earlier, after my thorough immersion in the poetry book and subsequent discussions with Miss Carol, me prodding her delicately for a reckoning of what caused Miss Belivet to leave. There’s only so much one can tell from reading letters; however, the origin of their troubles was clearly contained therein. The crack between them, that I assume turned crater, originated on that fateful road trip they took to retrieve my teacher’s things from her childhood home. Notes exchanged between them expressed a deeply shared regret concerning how each behaved during a quarrel that broke out with Miss Belivet’s parents. In the acute interest of protecting their privacy, I forego sharing all of the intimate correspondence between them and share only matters that cast a light of understanding. The brief notes exchanged after that divisive quarrel read as follows:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Carol, I’m sorry my parents behaved so poorly. I understand how you reacted as you did. I wanted to speak out for myself and us, but everything seemed to fall apart so quickly. My parents, as I explained many times prior to our trip, are very conservative and as you saw, overly protective of me. It’s no excuse for how they behaved toward you and I wish they were more accepting of my feelings for you. My hope is that in time they will grow to love you as much as I do. All my love, Therese </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Dear Therese, please forgive me, my temper got the better of me. If there’s anything you think I can do or say to repair things with your parents, I will gladly do it. I will try to look for the good in both of them as they created the person I love more than anything else on this earth. Yours, Carol </em>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>This seems a fitting time to share more of the circumstances of the music competition, a proper segue after parental problems, if ever one exists. The event of the competition shaped me or rather, misshaped me, causing guilt I bore for years. It unquestionably resulted in even precursory implications for a strain of my teacher’s relationship with Miss Carol.</p><p> </p><p>The auditorium stage for the music competition contained a piano, music stand and chair. The chair and stand were optional -- I required neither. The audience was filled with family members, teachers, students and several judges seated in the front row. Audience members were free to float in and out of the auditorium, but strictly only in between performances. Down a long hallway and close to the main lobby was a practice room where musicians stored their equipment, warmed up and generally wandered in and out before and after performances. Restrooms and vending machines were also located along this hallway.</p><p>My turn to play came directly after Miss Belivet’s unpleasant female student. I waited in the wings during her performance, my instrument at the ready, taking in the impersonal sounds of this rude girl’s technical superiority. Her music easily filled my ears yet had no effect whatsoever upon my soul. Polite, robotic applause followed: a perfect match for her music. The girl bowed, mistaking this venue for Carnegie Hall then promptly walked off stage and like a funnel cloud from the Alps, blew me off without the slightest acknowledgment.</p><p>Miss Belivet, remaining at the piano, smiled when my name was called. My jitters lessened feeling her supportive buoyancy and I floated center stage, beside her and the piano.  </p><p>Due to the casual atmosphere of the competition, no spotlights were used, affording me the ability to look out into the audience and clearly see faces. My parents were easy to locate, seated in one of the front side rows, convenient I suppose for my father to exit. It shocked me that he was present at all and not still outside on a smoke break. Obviously, my mother harangued him. In retrospect, I wish he continued blowing smoke outside the school rather than eventually blowing things up for me inside of it. </p><p>Naturally, I scanned the audience looking for Miss Carol. My teacher explained that she planned to attend despite her apparently running late. Of course she wasn’t there. <em> Why would she want to attend an amateur contest and hear some kid her girlfriend teaches play the clarinet? </em>  Disappointment grew fiercely inside of me, a math lesson in exponential growth. The clarinet felt heavy when I lifted it to my mouth after Miss Belivet played a tuning C on the piano. She smiled with extra brightness, certainly to make up for that one massively empty seat. I commenced tuning, detecting the slightest sharpness, a C flirting with the likes of a D-flat and corrected it by extending the clarinet length slightly at the barrel joint. </p><p>The noise of an auditorium door opening drew my attention. I looked up. </p><p>And. </p><p>There she was. </p><p>
  <em> Miss Carol. </em>
</p><p>Experiencing immeasurable joy, I took in how stealthy she walked, quiet and quick toward the center section, her head down and body somewhat hunched, trying to make her tall stature less conspicuous. However, I wondered, did she manage to get past the ushers stationed at the auditorium entrances between performances? She took a seat in the center of the auditorium, the most direct line of sight to my teacher and me. Maneuvering with determination past a few people sitting near the aisle she situated herself at last. My teacher’s face illuminated, the arch in her back extended and her hands near the keys. </p><p>Before commencing with the piece, I caught Miss Carol’s eye. She smiled broadly. My stomach completed intricate flips, wild and winding, and I knew decidedly how much I loved her. Not precisely in the way my teacher loved her, but in my own way all the same. And <em> Incurably </em>. </p><p>Chopin’s etude flowed with a fluid, feminine touch from our hands as though the spirit of the gifted master himself guided our fingers upon every major and minor key of our instruments. The multiple-lined melody lingered as tender poetry, contrary to the approaching conflict of dissecting human melodies. The Train Wreck.</p><p>After the last measure, the applause was genuine and lengthy. My mother clapped with glee knowing the likely marks from the judges would translate into a college scholarship, her smile dripped of dollars and cents. My father clapped with a physicality. No feeling. His eyes I caught glancing at the closest exit.</p><p>I spotted the bassoon guy, his bow tie as big as his grin. He stood in the back of the room clapping with his eyes only for my teacher and his applause too.</p><p>And in the center of it all, Miss Carol clapped with enthusiasm, a rescue ship, her horns blaring, lights flashing. I could tell that she wanted to stand up very badly, but remained seated with her applause in order not to embarrass anyone, most of all my teacher. She clapped with her entire body, arms extending out, her hair too, worn down, bounced with vigor and her eyes could light up the darkest, most forsaken place. Her lips moved in a distinct and exaggerated manner and I read her mouthing clearly. A message meant solely for me: “Encore. Encore.”</p><p><br/>***</p><p>“Miss Belivet’s lady lover’s getting hit on by some old guy in the hall.” I looked up and the deplorable Jenny Briggs stood near me in the practice room after my performance. With her coat on and instrument at her side, she was ready to go home. With one brisk turn, her clarinet case swinging, she left. I never saw her again. Ever.</p><p>Clueless and ignoring the troublesome girl, I swabbed out my instrument and put it away. The practice room was abuzz with other students, many congratulating me on my performance. There were still other students scheduled to play, but I planned to leave with my parents due to mounting homework waiting at home. I knew Miss Belivet too said that she would not stay longer. She was currently at the opposite side of the room in a conversation with another teacher. I hoped to catch up with her in the lobby as she said she wished to congratulate my parents on my performance. </p><p>The hallway was moderately crowded when I stepped into it, buttoning my coat. There was a slow buzz of people going in and out of the restrooms and traipsing to and from the lobby. The majority of overhead lights in the hall were not functional so my view was obscured. I stopped dead and with great immediacy upon recognizing my father up ahead talking to Miss Carol. She was reaching to pull a candy bar out of the vending machine. My father’s manly laughter found its way to me and I took a few steps backward. “I’m Dan,” I heard him say, too confident, the voice he uses to my great embarrassment when conversing with attractive servers and cashiers. Even from where I was standing, I could tell Miss Carol was uncomfortable. When she walked toward the lobby, my father followed, extending his right hand to her, furthering the unwanted introduction. I picked up immediately on how his other hand, the one displaying a symbol of holy matrimony, remained in his pocket.</p><p>Where the hell was my mother? </p><p>I slowly walked out of the dark, uncertain where to take myself. That’s when the bassoon guy appeared. I’m still not sure where he came from. “Nice Chopin-ing,” his annoying wordplay.</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>“Where’s Terry?”</p><p>“Terry?”</p><p>“Your teacher.”</p><p>“Dunno,” I said, keeping her whereabouts hidden, convinced Miss Belivet’s location was all he ever thought about.</p><p>“See ya.” He was quite done with me and continued the scouting mission, blazing in the wrong direction.</p><p>Nearly on tip toe I ventured with great trepidation toward the lobby. My father was still attached to Miss Carol. Even from where I was standing I could tell how he fancied her. </p><p>I stood there, stuck between wanting to run toward them, knocking my father over, and running out of the building. I froze, watching from a safe distance. </p><p>Somehow, she still saw me. Of course he didn’t.</p><p>“Ethan,” her voice eager and raised, relieved at my apparent rescue. I wanted very much to crawl into a ball on the floor and die. She waved dramatically and walked the distance toward me and wrapped her arms around me. “Help,” she whispered into my ear, “I can’t get rid of this guy.”</p><hr/><p>Miss Carol walked through the door with pizza for our dinner as promised, seeming pleased to see me still there safely in her apartment, a look of relief on her face so unlike the way I’d found her upon my unexpected arrival beaten up the night before.   </p><p>She told me about her day recording final grades for the semester. “I’m now free until after the New Year,” she said, not sounding celebratory. I gathered that she did not look forward to the approaching holidays alone.</p><p>“Did you call home?” she needed to know.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Do they know where you are?”</p><p>“Generally.” </p><p>She nodded blankly, seeming temporarily satisfied with the response.</p><p>Somewhere in the middle of the meal and after Miss Carol consumed several glasses of wine, I began searching for info about my teacher: exactly where she was and how she was.</p><p>“She’s staying in the apartment above the family’s furniture store, in Pennsylvania.” She topped off her glass with more wine.” </p><p>“Is she still teaching?”</p><p>“Last time we spoke, two weeks ago,” she paused with the weight of those weeks, “she’s giving lessons, to one student. She works sometimes at the furniture store too.” I could see her jaw line tighten.</p><p>“Why did she leave?” Perhaps the cold Coke gave me placebo liquid courage.</p><p>“Initially to help with the store. Her father’s been ill.” She took another long sip of wine and leaned back in her chair. “Then she said she needed space to <em> regroup </em>.”</p><p>Her eyes narrowed, fighting tears. “What the hell does that even mean? More like <em> ungroup </em>.”</p><p>“Yeah,” I said, not understanding entirely and feeling angry too at my teacher for the first time.</p><p>“She left the piano,” I said, “that’s a good sign, right?”</p><p>“Maybe,” she said and wiped her eyes. “I bought it for her before we moved in together. I thought it would make her feel at home and she could use it, you now, for the lessons.” She shrugged, hiding resentment. “Miss Belivet,” her voice slowed by the alcohol, “has a harder time about us … as a couple. Fitting in. You know?”</p><p>God how I knew all about that -- <em> Fitting in. </em> “Yeah, I know, just look at me,” I said. It made her laugh and lightened the thick, choking atmosphere.</p><p>I ended up bringing up something I’d always wondered about, but due to circumstances, never asked. Now seemed as good a time as any. </p><p>“Miss Carol?” </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“How did you ever get past the ushers that time … at my high school competition?” It was the first time I violated the unspoken rule between us to leave that event in the past.</p><p>“I told the usher you were my son, about to play Chopin.” She chuckled and a rush of warmth radiated my skin.</p><p>“Your son.” I repeated it with guarded pride, unconvinced of the term while smitten with the idea. It sounded right. And wrong. </p><p>She understood all of it, our otherworldly kinship and the unspoken issues of my identity, nodding briefly. It was always enough. “I also slipped the usher guy a ten,” she said, her timing extraordinary, the wine glass moving slyly toward her lips.</p><p>Our laughter momentarily mocked the unkind past until it grew quiet again and we sat watching the lights from the tiny tree atop the piano Miss Carol purchased as a gift for her absent lover.</p><p>“I’d like to visit my teacher,” I said, not knowing how she’d respond.</p><p>She traced the lip of her glass, taking her time with its full circumference. “I’ll give you her number,” she said and looked me straight, her eyes alert with sobriety, “but, promise me that you’ll find out and tell me how she is, how she <em> really </em> is, when you return.”  </p><p>The overt implication of me checking in on my teacher’s well being changed the very air around us and I felt the distinct prospect of some sort of collective regrouping.</p><p>Enthusiastically, I agreed.</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. No. 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An enigmatic message from Carol, more music competition flashbacks and All Aboard to Reading.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A direct train route does not currently exist between NYC and Reading, PA and I doubt it did during the timeframe of this story either. Board this imaginary train with me and ignore impossibility. I continue expanding this off the fandom rails world because of how much it relaxes me and provides joy transported to a time without cell phones, the Internet and social media. Ethan visits me on his terms to share another piece of the tale. Thanks for joining me in these time travels.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Miss Carol parked the car outside Penn Station. She was kind enough to drop me off for my trip to Reading with a promise to pick me up on my return in two days. Arriving with time to spare, we stayed inside the car and chatted about train travel in general and her memories of a first trip as a child. We managed, initially, to circumvent talk of where I was going and who I would see. </p><p>On the floor, between my feet, was a small bag I packed for the trip. It contained a change of clothes and toiletries and a book I borrowed from Miss Carol’s library. She glanced at the bag, a reminder of her involvement in retrieving clothes and other personal items from my parents’ home. “Thanks again for going with me the other day.” </p><p>“Sure.” She was casual, downplaying her part in it, how she escorted me home and waited in the living room, near the front door, holding a wooden baseball bat. She insisted the weapon was merely a prop despite us both knowing she was capable of using it. My father wasn’t home when we arrived, the calculated visit executed during his work shift. Mother made a fuss when we entered and tried her best to explain away what happened to my beaten face. Before we left she told Miss Carol that she should very well stay out of matters not any of her Goddamn business.</p><p>“I make Ethan’s welfare my <b> <em>GOD damn</em> </b> business,” Miss Carol said and adjusted her hold on the bat, reinforcement of the universal truth that action, even if implied, always speaks louder than words. </p><p> </p><p>“I thought you might like a few snacks for the train,” Miss Carol reached into a small bag in the back seat. She slipped me money too, despite my telling her I was fine in that regard, having my own student charge card my parents deserved paying off.</p><p>There was concern in her face when I said “Goodbye” and reached for the door handle.</p><p>“Listen, Ethan,” her urgency felt like a hand grabbing my arm. “I need to tell you something.” She took a long breath and appeared to search for words better conveyed by telepathy.</p><p>“Is everything all right?” my concern grew.</p><p>“Well, yes. Uhh. Not entirely. It’s just that … you see …” She seemed absolutely exhausted, meandering about in her own equivocation.</p><p>“Is it the trip? Would you prefer I not go?”</p><p>“No-No” she said with firm resolve, “and it shouldn’t matter what I prefer.” If nothing else, she was always impartial, regardless of her own subjective feelings. </p><p>“I’m interfering then, aren’t I, by going?”</p><p>“Ethan …” she looked down at the floor mats then gradually up to my knees and settled at my searching eyes, the skin around one still bruised. “You mustn’t put me up on a pedestal or defend me.” </p><p>“What do you mean?” I looked at her the way I did after she scribbled the solution to a complex equation. In the world of constants and variables, algebraic and otherwise, she was the constant. But then, was she? It wasn’t my business, whatever the matter. Still, she tried to explain herself in sparse supplemental detail that confounded me even more.</p><p>“I did … <em> things </em>,” an air of guilt hung in the air, “... that hurt her. Miss Belivet.” </p><p>An involuntary “Oh” escaped my lips and we sat in the aftershock for a moment, adjusting to what felt like shifting bedrock beneath my feet.</p><p>“It’s never as simple as one person’s fault,” she added in final reflection.</p><p>We sat a while longer in the quiet of the cold car, an isolating moment, yet looking back, a necessary one. How deeply I idolized her, considering us two kindred souls on this earth, a place that often felt like the planet of the fucking assholes. I knew her instinctively. And, I didn’t know her at all. I never would.</p><p>“Go on, you’ll be late.” She nodded toward the station as if suddenly pressed for time, needing to be someplace else. She checked her hair in the rearview mirror, carefully taming strands with her fingers as though preparing for a meeting or a date. In a flash I saw something wild in the way she looked at her reflection. It made me picture her hanging off the edge of an enormous pedestal, the one where I placed her. With hands losing their grip she came sliding down a slippery edge. </p><p>“See you Sunday at six then?” I stepped out of the car.</p><p>“Your taxi will be waiting,” she chuckled, a deep rumbled trill, a satisfied cat purring. She seemed a bit more like her old self, but with a muted smile, giving me the impression that she needed me on my way.</p><p>As the train crept out of Penn Station, I worried how Miss Carol might spend her weekend. From the short time I’d spent with her the past few days, I felt her crushing loneliness, the kind that can turn on its head and make a person do desperate things. </p><p>I looked out the window, the wind was picking up and only a smattering of people stood on the platform watching the train leave the station. On the farthest edge of the platform I promptly recognized Miss Carol. She looked cold standing in the wind, her hair whipping about her face and her hands buried deep in the pockets of her long winter coat. She stood there and watched my train leave for Reading. With my face pressed close to the window I measured the distance between us growing wider and her becoming smaller until she disappeared from my sight.</p><hr/><p> </p><p>Miss Carol hugged me tighter, a long embrace in the lobby after the music competition, whispering her irritating predicament: being followed around by a flirtatious, persistent man. An insect.</p><p>My father. </p><p>“I finally told this clown to buzz off,” she said before she pulled away from me. I could smell coffee on her breath and coconut in her hair product, long blonde strands near my eyes and pressed against my cheeks. She held an unopened Almond Joy candy bar in her hand, the one I saw her purchase from the vending machine down the hall with my father, the aforementioned “clown,” trying to make an introduction. The wrapper crinkled as she extended her arms around me and I dug my fingers deep into her fuzzy wool sweater, its vee neckline revealing tiny freckles scattered on her chest above the shadows that led to parts of her body men like my father assumed they could pursue with calloused hands, those same places where I wanted to rest my head and cry. “Run, Miss Carol. Take my hand and run with me out of this place. Now.” But I could not speak, rather I continued on down the train tracks with her, a bystander on those cold, rusted rails, waiting for the remaining cars to join the pile up.</p><p>My mother, returning from fetching an extra roll of film she’d left in the glove box, was the next to arrive on the scene. She walked into the lobby just as Miss Carol was releasing me from the congratulatory hug. Father stood some feet away, obviously dumbstruck that I should know this same woman <em> he </em> wanted to know, the one who just told him to take a hike. “Ethan,” Mother said with open arms, “you did so well with your song.” She hugged my rigid body -- eyes, feet, brain cemented to the floor. “And <em> who </em> is this?” She gave Miss Carol a head-to-toe once-over, taking in the sensual way hair fell around her eyes, knee-length skirt and high leather boots, the kind worn atop a well-bred horse. </p><p>“This is, um,” I stumbled, distracted by how my father’s nervous eyes remained somewhere on the outskirts. </p><p>“Go on,” Mother said, pressing for the identity of the mystery woman. By this time, Miss Carol was piecing it all together, the picture where she found herself, colliding with the dysfunctional family to which I belonged. Her eyes shifted uncomfortably between my parents.</p><p>“Um …” I continued to struggle with how to introduce the most extraordinary person I’d ever known to the most exasperating ones. </p><p>“I’m Carol.” A hand extended to my mother. “I live with Miss Belivet.” Her eyes darted toward my father, the air ripe with her frankness.</p><p>“You’ve been an absolute Saint Rita, helping Ethan with the algebra. I’m Grace, Grace Glodowski, Ethan’s mother of course.” Her voice grew louder than required as they shook hands. “And over there, that’s my husband Dan. Gawd, come ov-ah here, where are ya man-ahs?” her accent thickest when angry with him. She began digging feverishly in her purse for the camera, a weapon eventually used under duress. <em>Ready, aim, shoot.</em> </p><p>My father, looking like he needed a smoke, stepped closer, a hunch-backed raccoon scampering across a city street. He reached for Miss Carol’s hand and they completed the world’s briefest handshake. </p><p>I knew about my father’s wandering eye, we all did, especially Mother. In time I learned he had wandering hands and other unmentionable body parts as well. There was apparently an understanding between my parents. One day Mother stopped understanding.</p><p>“Would you mind taking our family picture, it’s so rare the three of us have the opportunity?” Mother talked while loading a fresh roll of film into the camera. </p><p>“Oh, all right,” Miss Carol looked like the one needing a smoke. </p><p>I was forced to pose in between my parents, Mother applying lipstick as she coached us “boys” on standing more straight, smiling more fake. </p><p>“There,” Miss Carol held the camera out toward Mother after capturing the humiliating moment, making a permanent record of it.</p><p>“Ya didn’t say cheese. I wasn’t ready.” Mother demanded a redo and Miss Carol obliged with a reluctant and cheesy smile, preoccupied with the greater lobby area, my family a blur, her focus elsewhere. I knew she was searching for Miss Belivet, ironically the one accustomed to cameras. Here she was, forced to play family photographer. I wanted to scream an apology for my pestering father <em> and </em> now mother and Miss Belivet too, <em> absent </em>Miss Belivet. She was, after all, my real teacher, the one Mother paid. How was it she was missing out on all the fun? </p><p>“It would mean so much to Ethan if you wrote a recommendation letter for him to use for his future college plans.” Mother went in straight for the kill, the camera barely out of Miss Carol’s hands, pushing the limit on favors, her obsessing over getting these damn letters of recommendation from every teacher imaginable.</p><p>“My pleasure,” Miss Carol acquiesced with grace and I wished to disappear into the earth’s core. “Ethan’s an exceptional math student and obviously a gifted musician, you both must be very proud” she went on with kindness a bit more, squeezing the hell out of lemons. Father nodded vaguely, having little interest in my music or math studies, aside from perhaps trying to calculate the probability of his choosing to flirt with this ONE damn woman of ALL the women in the building. I too was trying to perform that same calculation.</p><p>Mother jabbered on about college expenses and scholarships, Miss Carol nodding while discreetly glancing around again for Miss Belivet. She spotted my teacher at the same moment I did. Miss Belivet walked toward us. The eager bassoonist accompanied her, attached like barnacles on smooth, wet wood. He was grinning, of course, the sight causing one corner of Miss Carol’s lips to raise, her arms folding, head cocked and turning away sharply from the perplexing sight of them together. She continued conversing with my mother, a guise of cordiality in the middle of family dysfunction. And now, with Miss Belivet and the insufferable bassoonist approaching, she was reminded of more family dysfunction. Her own. </p><p>Two more train cars were about to join the pile up.</p><p><em> Chuga Chuga </em>.</p><hr/><p> </p><p>Settling into the train ride to Reading, alternating between reading the book I borrowed from Miss Carol and looking out the window, I couldn’t help but anticipate seeing my teacher again. An anxious excitement tightened and fluttered my stomach imagining how she would greet me. Would she recognize me with new height, a lower voice and no braces? There was also the matter of my bruised face. I wondered if she might pry or had Miss Carol already conveyed enough details? She was warm and welcoming enough on the phone when I planned the short visit. How much I longed to see her under better circumstances than our last interaction years before, a week after the music competition. That day, sneaking away to their apartment, hoping both of them were home and only finding Miss Belivet. “I’m sorry.” I shook with snot and tears on my lips that day. “I hate <em> him </em> , <em> them </em>. It’s not fair.” Seated in her grandmother’s green chair, I dug my fingers into the worn velvet fabric, her consoling hand on my knee.</p><p>“Ethan, it’s not your fault. Some people don’t know how to look for the good in others.”  </p><p> </p><p>Light snow began to fall twenty miles outside of Reading, rails winding alongside and then above the Schuylkill River on the final leg of the journey. It was the most scenic of the route with sycamores lining the river and glimpses of a paved trail, former routes of the railway, where few dared to walk or bike on that cold afternoon. </p><p>The conductor made the announcement that the train was approaching Reading, on time, a rarity for train travel. I gathered my things and waited at the car’s lower level exit with the rest of the departing passengers. My eyes peered out the window near the exit doors, looking for my teacher in the light snow that fell a bit harder. The car doors opened. The platform looked barren except for a handful of people waiting. “Grandpa,” a little girl passenger squealed and ran past me toward an elderly man holding a can. </p><p>The train wasted no time moving on its way after dropping us off, heading to some smaller, "Podunkier" place. I zipped my bomber jacket up as high as it would go and stood on the platform watching most of the passengers reunited with friends and family, leaving eventually me the solitary person standing in the cold. It was after all early and there were no online updates so that my teacher would know of my early arrival, furthermore, I had no cell phone to alert her. I ended up sitting on a bench closest to the parking area, figuring I was most visible there. </p><p>I checked my watch, ten minutes had passed. A few people milled around, aimless like me, some seeming to appear from space. One woman, about Miss Belivet’s age, asked me if I knew what time the next bus into the city was arriving. “Sorry, don’t know,” I said and went back to scanning the small parking lot and surrounding pathways, wishing I’d brought a warm hat. After a while it became too cold to wait outside. I found shelter inside the small train station. It consisted of a few chairs, outdated magazines and a lifeless old codger manning the ticket window. I stood in the warmth and looked out the main window for a while, scanning the walkways. The man behind the counter looked over at me a few times and I sensed he was accustomed to having the place to himself. He opened his mouth once to say something, but thought otherwise, sizing me up most likely as a punk sissy weirdo from the city.</p><p>I ended up sitting in one of the hard wooden chairs and looked at the wall, wondering if I should use the pay phone hanging there. I decided to wait a while more for my absent teacher, opening the snack lunch Miss Carol packed. I’d already eaten the sandwich, pretzels and orange. The only thing remaining was an Almond Joy. It made me lonesome for Miss Caro’s company and angry that my teacher left me stranded here. Just as I was about to tear open the candy wrapper, I heard a tap on the window.</p><p>I looked up.</p><p>There she was, Miss Belivet, smiling sweetly at me like that very first day. She mouthed “I’m so sorry,” through the glass, the wind whipping hair and tiny snowflakes in her face. Her eyes, how kind they were and in a perpetual search for the good and the joy all around her. Instantly, I forgave her tardiness. I forgave her everything.   </p><p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Lucky 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>More of Ethan's visits with Miss Belivet and train wreck conclusion.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Reading Furniture - Family Owned Since 1952.  </em>
</p><p>The words were painted in clean, white lettering and surrounded a rendering of a simple wooden chair. The image and lettering appeared on the side of an old timey red pickup whose passenger door I opened. </p><p>“Cool classic truck,” I said, hopping inside, happy to be out of the cold. </p><p>“It was my grandmother’s.” Miss Belivet sat proudly in the driver’s seat of the 1954 Chevy 3100. She patted the truck’s cold metal dashboard lovingly and pulled a black stocking hat down farther over her ears. “Ethan, it’s so good to see you. I want to hear all about your studies.” She avoided looking at my bruised eye; I wondered how much of that story she’d already heard.</p><p>“You too, Miss Belivet,” I said, “I mean, it’s good to see you too.” But how grown up and changed <em> she </em> looked, an independence and confidence not reminiscent of the sweet young graduate student who taught me how to master a difficult Chopin etude. Seeing her in the driver’s seat of the old truck made me happy for whom she might become, but sad for who she left behind. </p><p>Upon noticing my chattering teeth, she reached behind the seat. “Here,” she said and handed me a fuzzy aviator cap, the kind with flaps that hung warm and plush over my ears. A pleasant rumbling shook the truck and we were off, her piloting with hands firm against the steering wheel, the seat springs beneath us flexible enough that we bounced pleasantly over each bump and around every corner, putting miles between us and the small Reading train station. </p><p>“You must be starving. How about we grab something to eat?”  </p><p>“Yeah, I am a bit hungry,” I said, “even though Miss Carol--” I stopped myself, unsure if I should make mention of the certain someone who packed me a lunch, fell off of a pedestal and did “things to hurt her.” </p><p>She shifted into third gear and we picked up speed, rambling down Reading roads with the topic of Miss Carol quietly locked away in a safe box and Miss Belivet holding the key. At a stoplight she turned to me. “It’s okay to talk about her.” </p><p>“Oh, okay,” I nodded, relieved since Miss Carol’s<em> ALL </em>I wanted to talk about. For this first part of our visit I managed to suppress one hundred and one questions, number one simply <em>Don’t you miss her? </em></p><p>Traveling to the lunch destination, Miss Belivet slipped into teacher mode, as natural as rain, her pointing out landmarks in the place where she grew up. “The Reading Railroad is one of our country’s first,” she said. I kept waiting for her to discuss a musical concept or New York City or who was lost and waiting there for her. For a few blocks she stayed on the rails, explaining how the Reading transported coal from mines south of here until it went bankrupt when she was a kid. “The city’s seen its share of hard times and urban decay. But there’s resilience, I can feel it,” she sounded young and hopeful again, “good things have a way of growing up from decay.” It gave me hope too, but for someone more than the city.</p><p>She parked the truck in front of a small cafe, <em> Established 1950 </em> visible above the entrance. “This place doesn’t look like much,” she said grinning, “but trust me, it has the best food. The hash browns are Carol’s fav--.” She stopped herself, as though the topic for which she recently gave me an <em> All Clear </em> , did not apply to her. I waited, expecting hash browns to lead into an entire entree that included the status of her heart and future plans. Instead, after a moment of pause, she grabbed my arm, her small frame moving gently across the truck’s bench seat, closer to me. “Listen, Ethan, I wanted to say that I’m sorry I didn’t reach out to you … you know, after <em> everything. </em> I wanted to -- <em> WE </em>wanted to, many times.” She shook her head, the weight of it seemed heavy and she moved slowly. “We just thought it best for you if we stayed away.” She squeezed my arm harder. “I think we were wrong.” I could feel her anger at the person who caused the lingering bruise around my eye. </p><p>“It’s all right, Miss Belivet, I managed okay.” </p><p>“We went to your high school graduation.” She had more to tell me. “Both of us. We stood way in the back.”</p><p>“What?” Baffled, my throat tightened.</p><p>“We didn’t stay long, just long enough to hear your name called.” </p><p>“I came by your apartment a few more times,” I said, talking fast, my voice cracking during the evolving confessional, “after that first time, I mean, but I never buzzed. Man, I wanted to but I figured I’d probably made things bad enough between you and Miss Carol.” </p><p>“This is not your fault, Ethan,” Miss Belivet said though there was no denying the strain I’d caused. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The bassoonist was the first to speak when the new train cars joined the pile up. “There he is,” he said pointing at me, laying it on thick with exaggerated compliments for my performance. Such a performance <em> he </em> gave, sidled up to my teacher, adjusting his bow tie. Miss Carol, still standing with folded arms, gave him a below freezing up and down glance. </p><p>“You must be very proud of Ethan.” Miss Belivet sensed the charged atmosphere and addressed my mother with strained congeniality, her eyes darting toward Miss Carol where she met with unrequited eye contact, a cold, hard wall forming between them. Father managed to maintain his distance from it all, standing near my mother but never entirely <em> with </em> her.</p><p>“Dan!” mother tried to pull him and his disinterest into the conversation, “this is Ethan’s music teacher, Miss Bellvette,” she slaughtered the pronunciation without my teacher’s correction.</p><p>“Hello,” Miss Belivet shook my father’s hand, unwise to the confounding nature of this conclave, not yet attuned to the train whistle in the distance. </p><p>“And who is this handsome gentleman?” Mother eyed the bassoonist, heaving innuendo onto the fire with a saccharine suggestion that he was my teacher’s beau. </p><p>Miss Carol’s eyebrows rose in her irritated wait for an answer from my teacher. <em> Yes, Miss Belivet, who IS this gentleman you let follow you around everywhere? </em></p><p>The bassoonist kept his mouth shut. It must have nearly killed him, waiting to hear just how my teacher would recognize him, surely pining for something less formal than her sterile reply.</p><p>“This is Tommy,” she began uncomfortably. “He’s a classmate from my graduate Wind Studies Program.” </p><p>“Well, you still make the <em> cutest </em> couple.” Mother winked. She could not leave well enough alone. </p><p>Miss Carol’s face grew more strained. Sarcasm, like shards falling from her narrowed eyes caused her to speak. “Yes,” she said, “aren’t they positively adorable?”</p><p>“Aw shucks,” the bassoon couldn’t help himself, lapping it up, a thirsty puppy dog.   </p><p>“Oh, no,” flustered, Miss Belivet stepped over the glass fragments, trying to get herself out of this social corner she’d been backed into, some of the blame my mother’s, the rest her own. She stammered. “It’s not--not … like <em> that </em>. We’re just friends.”</p><p>“Sure, that’s what they all say.” My father emerged from his corner, throwing gasoline on the fire. He chuckled suggestively, his wandering eye wondering about things that weren’t any of his business. </p><p>Miss Belivet glanced again toward Miss Carol, her widening eyes begging for some kind of assistance. She received none. I got the feeling Miss Carol tired of being the one to take the lead in the openness department.</p><p>Mother picked up on the growing tension between them. “So, how is it that you two ladies came to be roommates?” It’s the same question she pestered me with on more than one occasion.</p><p>Miss Carol stood her ground, gazing at her “roommate” with impatience. </p><p>I too grew impatient with my teacher. Why couldn’t she or wouldn’t she or hadn’t she or any other “n’t” in the universe told this bassoonist to take a hike long ago? And whatever was so difficult about my mother’s question? </p><p>“Let me guess,” the bassoon piped in, not possessing attractive traits of self-containment, “one of you answered the other’s classified ad for a roommate?”</p><p>“Enough about me, we should be celebrating Ethan’s performance,” Miss Belivet, a chicken, kept the truth classified. </p><p>Turning her face toward the enormous lobby windows, Miss Carol looked in the direction of the dark side of the moon where I knew she hid a wounded heart.</p><p><em>Speak up, Miss Belivet!</em> <em>Tell them about the Brahms recital and that beautiful night in the snow. Say it loud so everyone can hear, most of all, my father. Tell him and Mother and this clueless bow-tied gnat how you love Miss Carol. Her mind, body and soul. Tell them that you share more than an apartment. </em></p><p>“So, Ethan, I heard you’ll receive your competition marks by Monday.” Miss Belivet bore down harder on avoidance. I didn’t care about my musical marks, barely able to look at her. What was <em> wrong </em> with her? </p><p>Propelled by a boldness that could not, would not be silenced, I opened my mouth and spoke. Years of my own suppressed feelings about being different busted wide open. If this grown woman couldn’t publicly acknowledge the true nature of her feelings, however would I learn to deal with my own identity issues?</p><p>I jumped onto the tracks and stood directly in front of the oncoming train. “Tell them, Miss Belivet,” my voice shook. “Tell them how you’re more than roommates.” </p><p>An eerie quiet hung there just before the pile-up.</p><p>Mother dangled speechless for the first time in her life and father appeared positively confused, the angry vein in his head that bulged when he over drank began to twitch. His initial descent began toward the eventual tirade I’d endure, first on the car ride home.</p><p>The bassoon section paused without grin or chatter, finally reading the notes of this musical score.</p><p>Miss Belivet stood there floundering, her mouth open without a word and Miss Carol meeting my eye briefly before looking at the floor. </p><p>In my head I was running long before I actually RAN. </p><p>No matter how far I ran, it all eventually caught up to me, Father terminating my music lessons, forbidding me from associating with people like “<em>That.</em>” How hard I tried to overpower him with my own rabid cries at his hypocrisy, ratting him out for hitting on Miss Carol. Mother jumped in between us when he took that first swing.</p><p> </p><p>All along, the cause of the train wreck, it was <em> me</em>.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>After lunch, Miss Belivet took me to the place where she was living, a large apartment above her family’s furniture store. It was historic and brick, the kind of building with radiator heat and wooden windows that stick. It looked like it needed work, apparent by the tool box in the kitchen and the cans of paint outside the room I was assigned to sleep. But it had the good smell of possibility and old wood, not the mold spore rotten kind, but old growth timber that smells like the forest and tells you a story of nearly a century’s worth of living.  </p><p>In one part of the room Miss Belivet’s photography supplies were spread out, a makeshift darkroom with stacks of chemicals and a clothesline strung up with a few drying pictures, historic architecture of the city, trees, the river, pieces of furniture sold in the store.</p><p>She told me about the family store where she’d been working since her father’s serious illness several months before. Sharing the details of how the business was started by her grandparents in the 1950s then steered solo by her grandmother widowed at a young age. She grew more animated, proud of managing things, keeping the business afloat. “I think Gran would be proud of me,” she smiled. “She was a strong woman with a gentle, quirky spirit. She gave palm and Tarot card readings, like I used to tell you about, well into her 80s. Right up here in this apartment. A lot of lost souls seemed to find their way to her.” I wished to hold Miss Belivet’s hand and try to find a line or two that led her back to New York or perhaps a hidden one that would bring Miss Carol here.</p><p>“It’s a cool place,” I said, looking out the window at the quaint downtown, the street below decorated for Christmas with strings of white lights wrapped on tree trunks and wreaths hung on streetlight poles. “Silver Bells” played softly in a perfect world as I watched light snowflakes grow fluffier. Mixed emotions stirred in my gut, homesick for the kind of happy place those decorations signified. I considered what I would do on Christmas Eve and Day with no intention of seeing my family. Miss Carol, her holiday season adrift like mine, invited me to dinner at some colleague friend’s on Christmas Day, an affair she presented with little joy. Suddenly those tentative plans felt even more incomplete. </p><p>I stood beside an upright piano in the corner of the room, pressing a few keys aimlessly, searching for the right notes to match my mood. A whistling kettle in the kitchen where Miss Belivet was making us tea cried out as if on cue. A reedy, windy tone, was it a C, a G or perhaps even that most hopeful of notes like the start of my favorite Chopin etude, a beautiful B? </p><p>“Gran’s piano,” she said, handing me a cup of tea and a plate of cookies. And I longed for Miss Carol. I could see her looking out the window, watching the snowfall before she read a book, listening while we played piano. </p><p>And like an impromptu musical score, it poured out of me, the first of many questions.</p><p>“Don’t you miss her?” I sat at the piano bench with my hands wrapped tightly around the warm cup of tea.</p><p>Before she spoke, she settled into her gran’s green chair and took a long sip of tea, digesting the maturity in my new tone. </p><p>I waited for her like a child waving to a train, dreaming of taking a ride on the Reading, wanting the conductor to make that train whistle blow. Not the short warning kind, but a long and lingering one that makes you happy, though you can't explain why. The train passed the river banks where I stood, snow falling all around me when I heard that first sweet, sustained note, the possibility of <strong><span class="u">better</span></strong> things up ahead.</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. O Come, All Ye Faithful</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>O come, all ye faithful.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Don’t you miss her?” The question hung heavy in the air. </p><p>Brief and succinct she answered with no evidence of self pity and a conspicuous lack of details that disappointed me. “Sometimes,” she said, without expression, quite set upon moving past the question, leaving me, in usual fashion, to speculate what happened between them.</p><p>“How are things with your family, Ethan? And what do you plan to do?” She wasted no time throwing the personal problem ball back into my court. </p><p>“I plan to distance myself from them,” I said. What other plans could I have with parents who could not accept how I felt and the person I was becoming?</p><p>I wondered about her family relations and so, in the air of openness, I dribbled the ball back to her. “Your parents don’t like Miss Carol, do they?”</p><p>She explained how her mother came to soften in time, but not her father. “Dad has a bit of a degree in micromanagement. Carol did not respond well to it. He’s rather hung up on tradition. Expected me to be taken care of by a …man.” I couldn’t help noticing her demeanor, my former music teacher living alone and running her grandmother’s business without needing help from a man, <em> or </em>woman, for that matter. </p><p>We spoke of my schooling. It pleased her that I was enrolled in a university piano course as she knew of my natural affinity for the instrument. She cautioned me of the difficulty in making a living with a music degree and applauded my emphasis on mathematics. “I’m sure Carol was very proud to hear that,” she looked down at her fingers and tamed a cuticle. The more the evening wore on, the more her armor gradually wore off and I could at long last see even a suggestion of her former feelings for Miss Carol, like that provocative photograph of her in the green chair, an open robe’s hint of invitation. I also knew that picture was somewhere in Miss Belivet’s possession and it still very much possessed her in spite of their derailment. </p><p>“I’m not sure you understand how very miserable she is without you. And I think you miss her very badly too. Shouldn’t you be able to work it out?” I took a long shot from the foul line. </p><p>It made her uncomfortable and she looked away again. “Is she drinking?” Her tone was firm yet not entirely without empathy. </p><p>“Just wine, I think,” as evidenced by the numerous bottles I discovered upon my initial unexpected visit. “And not that much.” I spoke with <em> first fist </em> knowledge of a shitfaced father.</p><p>She nodded and I sensed a measure of relief, though she remained silent, getting up to freshen our tea.  </p><p>“Miss Carol said I put her too much on a pedestal.”</p><p>“I know I used to,” she said to my utter surprise, a cymbal crash like an alarm trying to awaken me from unsustainable romantic ideals of them. The unnamed transgression Miss Carol referenced resurfacing, too deep or fresh for me to easily change any bandages.</p><p>“When I first learned that my father was ill,” Miss Belivet sat down and began removing more pieces of her armor, the visor rising so I could see her, and things, more clearly. “Carol came often and helped in the store at the beginning. She’s always had an affinity for this city that feels stuck in a simpler time. You remember her fascination with the 1950s?”</p><p>“Yes, from her history books.”</p><p>“Then it changed. People can leave you in more ways than physically.” She trailed off toward a ledge, clearly the point in their history of their great, sad divide.</p><p>“What will you do for the holidays?” she asked, lifting the teacup to cover the parts of her face that revealed pain, the kind capable of tarnishing heroine worship. </p><p>“Not spending it with my family,” I said with conviction. “Miss Carol offered that I stay with her as long as I like. She invited me to go with her on Christmas day to the home of someone from her work.”</p><p>Her hand that had just set the teacup down jerked, knocking it off its saucer. I watched as she tried to catch it too late, hands reaching for air and the cup slipping away from her, falling to the floor.</p><p>“At least it didn’t break,” I said with consolation as she raced to the kitchen for a towel. Bent down on the floor she wiped up the small spill, rubbing vigorously, the towel clenched in her hand, pushing it back and forth and back again well beyond the required effort, the moisture long removed from the old wood floor. </p><p>“Whose home?” She looked up at me with unexpected inquisition, a gnawing ache in her eyes, grouched on her knees, the towel still held with an unyielding grip.</p><p>“Um,” I tried to recall if I was told a name. “I’m sorry, Miss Belivet, I can’t remember. Whoever it is, he and his wife have two kids my age.”</p><p>“Oh.” She seemed embarrassed and rattled; the former emotion that made her body turn rigid released its grip. Picking herself up off the floor she began busily scooping up our cups and plates,  secrets she guarded made her clatter about, tidying things up.</p><p>When she sat back down I asked about her Christmas plans. This would after all be her first in many years without Miss Carol. </p><p>“Oh, I don’t know. It feels a bit rudderless, doesn’t it? Ethan, I’m so sorry about your family, but I’m glad you… have … <em> Carol </em>.” She seemed out of breath when she said her name. </p><p>“But, Miss Belivet, you still have her too.”</p><p>She ignored the blinking neon sign, the one I raised in front of her by only nodding vaguely. “What shall we do tomorrow?”  </p><p>“It looks like you could use some help around here, Miss Belivet.” </p><p>“Do you paint?” she smiled.</p><p>“Walls or canvas?” I tried a new tactic, lightening the mood.</p><p>“Unfortunately I’m not in the market for a watercolor artist. Freshly painted walls sound like fine art to me. This is supposed to be a fun visit, the last thing I want to do is have you working around here.”</p><p>“Can’t it be both?” The idea of helping her provided a much needed sense of purpose.</p><p>“There’s far too much work and your visit’s too brief.”</p><p>“What if I stayed longer?” The wheels in my head began to spin.</p><p>Her face lit up. “Really?”</p><p>“Well, Miss Carol’s expecting me back tomorrow evening and I don’t want to leave her alone too long, you know, with the holidays so near?” </p><p>“Oh. I see.” It hurt her, me playing favorites. </p><p>My words of explanation came out fast, battered and bruised, explaining how Miss Carol went with me to my parents’ carrying a baseball bat. Softly, I choked out the one thing she and I had in common, other than music. Or we <em> used </em> to anyway. “Miss Belivet, I love her.”</p><p><br/>
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Standing outside the door of the room where I would sleep, I said good night.</p><p>“Good night, Ethan.” </p><p>“Do you mind calling Miss Carol to tell her that I’d like to stay for a while longer? I can change my ticket tomorrow.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t you like to tell her yourself?” She pointed to the phone.</p><p>“I’m feeling very tired,” I yawned in hyperbole, one of the few times I lied to her.</p><p>The insulation was quite poor in Gran’s apartment, allowing her granddaughter’s half of a phone conversation to float into my ear, the one pressed firmly against the wall. Slightly muffled, I was able to hear Miss Belivet explain how I’d be staying on longer in part to help with painting. Once the change to my ticket was made, she’d be contacted with the return date and time. Benign pleasantries were exchanged, all of it rather business-like. </p><p>Then, a long pause, Miss Belivet listening followed by a resigned “I know the holidays will be difficult.” I couldn’t determine if she referenced mine or theirs. It was quiet for a very long time again before the breastplate of her armor was removed, “I miss you too.” </p><p>I could have high-fived the wall if not for the brutal shift into a minor key that ensued, the kind that always follows unresolved hurt feelings. “But it doesn’t change anything.” It’s the last thing I heard before that final, crushing clank of handset placed firmly back on its receiver. </p><p>I moved my ear off the wall and crawled into bed.</p><p>
  <em> Shit. Damn. Fuck. </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Over the next few days we divided our time between painting the bedrooms in the apartment, exploring Reading and working in the store. After breakfast one morning, we wasted no time commencing with the project of turning the dingy off-white walls in the main living room into a soothing shade of light sea green, Miss Belivet turning the store management over to an employee. </p><p>“I thought we’d take the truck to my gran’s property in the hills this afternoon and cut down a Christmas tree,” Miss Belivet said, pressing her roller into the paint tray. “I’m thinking we put it right over there, by the piano.” </p><p>“Definitely!” I easily agreed. By this point in my visit I’d finally given up on a starry-eyed reunion plan. It was time to abandon that ship and live in the present. </p><p>She explained how we could decorate the tree that evening with her grandmother’s collection of ornaments, all Czech-made, the country where her gran was born. I was grateful to be included in such a happy holiday tradition, something to look forward to as I went back to work, stepping up one rung of the ladder to better reach the far corner of the room near where we covered the piano with a giant drop cloth. With a paintbrush in hand I did my best to make smooth, green lines where the ceiling and wall met, concentrating so hard on my work I barely heard the soft knock at Miss Belivet’s front door. </p><p>“It’s probably one of my neighbors.” She set down her paint roller to answer it.</p><p>I continued without turning my head. Then, I heard Miss Belivet’s startled voice.</p><p>“Carol?” </p><p>“Your upstairs neighbor let me in.”</p><p>They dangled in their unfinished business, clumsy without choreography. I didn’t know where to look, feeling like an intruder suspended on a ladder looking down on the unplanned reunion: Miss Belivet with green paint speckled on her face and in her hair and Miss Carol trying to lean in, lumbering, a dancer out of step, then pulling away. How badly I could tell she wanted to wrap her arms around my teacher. “Put me to work,” she said at last resort, her voice shaky in the polite, guarded distance maintained between them. </p><p>Robotic, Miss Belivet stepped aside and let Miss Carol in. </p><p>“Miss Carol!” I smiled broadly and offered a wave of my paintbrush, euphoria contained. At age 15 I would have run to her. At 19 I was perceptive enough to restrain unbridled enthusiasm, not scream out the window <em> Merry Fucking Christmas, Reading, PA! She’s here! </em></p><p>“Well, look at you,” she smiled and pointed at my freshly painted wall. “I like the color.” She set down her bag, moving her body with rigidity, as if on stilts for the first time, afraid to fall over or into something or <em> someone </em>. “I went to the store first and was surprised you weren’t there.” </p><p>Miss Belivet did not seem to know what to do with herself and began to fiddle with things in a kitchen drawer as though completing some intended, meaningful task. </p><p>“We decided to paint the living room today. And cut down a Christmas tree.” I did the talking for her.</p><p>“It seems you’re having a very good visit,” she said and picked up the roller Miss Belivet previously used and went straight away to work, finding a wall to change color, respectful of this strange new space required between them.</p><p>“You really don’t--” Miss Belivet, from the kitchen, reached her hand out in a confused gesture, her attempt to assert some sort of control. </p><p>And yet, Miss Carol kept right on painting.</p><p>“I should go,” I said, yielding to their perceived need for privacy. “Is there something I can bring up from your car?” I began to step off the ladder. </p><p>Miss Carol, still painting, firmly nodded her head <em> NO </em>. She kept the roller in motion during the clandestine appeal for my assistance as a neutral buffer zone between them. And so, I stepped back up the ladder and continued painting straight lines. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>We piled into Miss Belivet’s Chevy truck with me in the middle and a handsaw and rope behind the seat. I felt pressure to fill the silences in between their brief, forced exchanges, interjecting merriment about the gorgeous falling snow and what sort of trees we’d find on Grandmother Belivet’s property. The pressure valve that existed between them hissed slow, cold air and I kept trying to warm things up with inane chatter about my time in Reading. “We ate lunch at your favorite diner place,” I told Miss Carol.</p><p>“Ah, yes, the best hash browns, “ she said and squeezed my arm, an act I interpreted as unity or perhaps her way of letting me know I didn’t need to try so hard -- it was acceptable that we all stew there in the quiet.</p><p>“Can you find some music on the radio?” Miss Belivet addressed me after the first mile. “Try 101.0 FM, they’re playing holiday music.”</p><p>I moved the dial, spinning past static and jumbled pieces of voice, song and advertisement. Landing on the requested station, an ad for winter tires concluded: “So, if you need traction, slip on over to Reading Tire.” A happy Christmas tune thankfully came on next, filling the cab with an instrumental version of “Sleigh Ride.” Though the two women were distant planets on either side of me and I ached for how they once were, I recall a sense of joy in knowing how they needed me, not to sit between them as a divider, but to remain here hopefully as glue, such a consolation as I still experienced pangs of guilt about that Great Train Wreck of 1988.</p><p>The three of us were carried along forested roads as my brain turned the truck into a sleigh, Miss Belivet with the reins, coaxing the horses to ascend Hill Road that we traveled, the city of Reading growing small below. Wipers squeaked, the old rubber barely keeping snow off the windshield, moving back and forth across the dirty glass in time with the song on the radio. And in the dreaminess of it all, I noticed how closely Miss Carol’s eyes followed the driver’s every move, her longing palpable, studying hands that shifted gears to match the grade of hills or rubbed frost off the inside windshield with the back of a gloved hand. I wondered if she considered, like me, who the hell this new, ruggedly independent woman was at the wheel. </p><p>The next song on the radio came quickly, a Goddamn whipsaw, an assault on hopes of an immediate truce. O, that beloved, traditional Christmas hymn, it began with triumphant horns and bells blasting above the road and engine noise. And then the revenant choir with familiar voices synonymous with millions of midnight masses. O those few commencing words, the sermon of it all and the need for prayer.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> O come, all ye  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Faithful </em>
</p><p><em> Joyful and triumphant </em> </p><p> </p><p>Miss Belivet reached over and spun the radio volume knob until it turned off, pulling her hand back to the wheel with an exaggerated flick of the wrist. I remember the loudness of that radio click and the ensuing deadly, punishing silence. </p><p>Miss Carol leaned her head against the passenger window, her body turned limp before a terrible, muffled sigh. I’ll never forget it. Her held breath released into a puff of condensation, fallen angel dust materializing onto the glass. </p><p>No one spoke a word until we reached the property, some five more miserable miles.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The property contained over 20 acres of established trees with a small creek running through its eastern edge. The snow fell harder as we exited the truck with flakes sticking to Miss Belivet’s stocking hat and the furry ridges of the borrowed aviator cap I wore. Miss Carol flipped up the hood on her parka and we took off walking.</p><p>“The younger trees are over that way,” Miss Belivet pointed, “near the creek bed.” She took off in the lead at a clipped pace.</p><p>I walked in between them, holding the well-worn crosscut saw that belonged to Miss Belivet’s grandfather, the weapon of our hunt. Old snow crunched beneath our feet and I could hear tree branches bending in the slight wind. After several hundred feet of walking, I sensed an increasing gap in between Miss Carol and myself. I turned around and caught sight of her. She was looking into the sky, her hood falling down and snow hitting her face. Her eyes closed for a moment and I’d never seen her look more beautiful, her troubles briefly forgotten, wrapped in Mother Nature’s arms.</p><p>“Have you been here before?” I asked her, walking to be near her, in the private cold where she stood solitary.</p><p>“Yes,” she said softly, in her state of quiet remorse.</p><p>Miss Belivet, up ahead, stopped upon noticing she had lost the rest of her party. The fact that she stopped at all was a very good sign. “Hurry up, slow pokes,” she said in commanding fashion and resumed the march, this time with a slower, acquiescing pace. We followed in kind.</p><p>We reached the edge of the property and stood assessing the variety of trees. Pines and spruce, maples and birch. And fir, so many different kinds of fir. “I’ve never seen so many trees,” I said breathily as that younger boy who they taught to play Chopin and graph parabolas. </p><p>“I forgot how lovely it is here,” Miss Carol said, catching Miss Belivet’s eye, but not holding it for long.</p><p>“Ethan, why don’t you pick out the tree?” Miss Belivet specified no taller than five feet, the measurement taking into account the apartment ceiling height and her Gran’s vintage blown glass tree topper.</p><p>I selected a small tree, well within the size parameters, a balsam fir, breathing in the smell of it, an elixir that temporarily washed away the memory of the artificial tree of my childhood.   </p><p> </p><p>We took turns carrying the tree back to the truck. On the final leg, it was the two of them, Miss Carol in the rear, holding the base. I pulled the truck gate down and watched them work together, resurrections of how well they knew each other. Without a word, they moved as one, loading that tree, Miss Belivet getting into the truck bed first, walking backward until they laid the fallen tree down gently. Miss Carol retrieved thin rope from the cab and jumped up into the bed. “Wind’s picking up, better tie it down,” she said, handing the rope to my teacher. I couldn’t help noticing that their hands touched and smoke from the spark it likely made mixed with their hot breath carried away by the freezing air.</p><p>Compliant, Miss Belivet began looping the rope within the built-in bed hooks before handing the rope back to Miss Carol who tied it onto the next hook. Back and forth they threaded the rope until the tree was secured.</p><p>On the ride home, Miss Belivet turned the Christmas station back on.   </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Sometime in the middle of the night I awoke and decided to wander, like a kid, to take another peek at the decorated Christmas tree. Quietly, I crept down the hall. With each step, sounds of weeping grew clearer. In the dim lights from the tree I made out the shadowy image of Miss Belivet seated in the green chair. Miss Carol was kneeled at the foot of the chair, her head on my teacher’s lap.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Fall on your knees  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> O hear the angels’ voices </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Miss Carol’s soft, ardent cries for forgiveness rang out like a piercing bell into the snowy night. Miss Belivet placed both of her hands on Carol’s head and made the sweet, shushing sound of a Mother calming her baby.</p><p>I disappeared back down the hallway and quietly slipped into my room. How my eyes burned with triumphant tears. An ear pressed hard against the wall, I heard the crying subside and soft footsteps before the door where Miss Belivet slept closed. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for the Christmas songs last chapter, a few I’d never heard before. They each molded the overall sentiment of this chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Prelude</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Closure?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b> <em>Prelude</em> </b> <em> - an action or event serving as an introduction to something more important. </em></p>
<p>I opened the deck of Tarot cards that once belonged to Miss Belivet’s grandmother, knowing little about the spectral meaning in the symbols upon each colorful card. They were well worn and I took great care with each one, cognizant of past lives whose history or future was analyzed by the flick of overturned cards. “Shall I do your reading?” I innocently pulled one card from the deck and laid it on the coffee table somewhat dramatically.</p>
<p>“Don’t tell me you believe in that nonsense too?” Miss Carol was walking toward me from the kitchen. She’d just finished giving water to the stray dog Miss Belivet found days earlier wandering outside their apartment. “Pseudoscience bull,” she spoke freely of her opinion of the occult since my teacher was out for the evening with her ensemble group. </p>
<p>“Mystical things shouldn’t add up,” the mathematician in me told her, “but I don’t think science can explain everything either.” </p>
<p>“Fair enough.” I felt her reluctant, doubting eyes on me as I looked more carefully at the randomly drawn card, an image of a pink heart pierced by long, ornate swords, <em> The Three of Swords, Betrayal </em> its title <em> . </em> Quickly I slipped the card back into the deck.</p>
<p>“What does it say?” She joined me on the opposite side of the couch, a book in her hand and glasses sliding to the edge of her nose, an air of half listening despite whole listening.</p>
<p>“It says you will win the lottery.” I grinned.</p>
<p>“Well, then, I’m a believer,” she raised one arm as though in worship and proceeded to open her book with the dog jumping in between us. </p>
<p>“Gonna keep him?” I asked, petting the dog behind his ears.  </p>
<p>“Well, I think she’s gotten her heart quite set on him,” she raised an eyebrow to the dog, feigning disapproval. “No one seems to be claiming him. We put out enough damned signs and called all the area shelters.”</p>
<p>“So, he’ll be coming to Reading for Christmas break?”</p>
<p>“Looks like it,” she sounded disappointed, but I wasn’t fooled, noticing how she allowed the dog to squeeze in close to her, his nose shoving intrusively into the book, making it impossible for her to read. “I suppose you’d prefer Call of the Wild?” she addressed him and groaned before gently patting his head.</p>
<p>“I think someone treated him badly,” I said with a sixth sense, Tarot-card worthy intuition about the mangy mutt.</p>
<p>“Huh,” she said, vacant and non-committal, but I knew she agreed. “Shall we take him out for a walk?” </p>
<p>We harnessed the dog with the leash and collar Miss Belivet purchased for him along with a <em> We’re Keeping Him </em> quantity of dog food and other supplies. However, there was no need to tether this animal, he’d follow Miss Carol anywhere, track her blind. </p>
<p>The snow was coming down in large flakes that collected on the dog’s fur. The farther we walked, the more we lost track of time with Miss Carol asking questions about my nearly completed mathematics studies. She planned to put me in contact with a colleague in the computer science department, a field that fascinated me, one she suggested I pursue with my degree. </p>
<p>The New York City streets looked magical that night and I could have walked and talked with her for hours. Turning a corner and entering a dream-like street decorated with hanging lights on storefronts, we stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, the place the dog chose to relieve his bowels stuffed full of Miss Belivet’s overfeeding. That’s when we saw her. She was different than I expected, though I’m not entirely sure who or what I expected. She was willowy and fair-skinned, a glossy Christmas ad of a creature with a shopping bag held at her side, the name of bookseller <em> B. Dalton </em> printed in the boldest red letters. Snowflakes accumulated in her dark hair possessed of waves and slight curls, one long, smooth curve draped over a rosy, sculpted cheek.  </p>
<p>“Carol?” She spoke, cautious and stunned.</p>
<p>Caught in the middle of opening a doggie bag and bending down to pick up hot, fresh poo, Miss Carol looked up. The woman tilted her head, the way inquisitive canines do. Her expressive, piercing eyes appeared to attempt telepathy. </p>
<p>Miss Carol looked up and faintly spoke the other woman’s name. “Samantha.” She was bent down, practically on her knees, scooping excrement into a bag. </p>
<p>“What a surprise,” the woman said, her eyes drifted toward me and of all things I remember wondering if she played a musical instrument, like Miss Belivet. Something told me she didn’t.</p>
<p>“Yes. A surprise.” Miss Carol replied as though in surrender, standing back up, letting the full doggie bag dangle in plain sight at her side. I could not help sensing an ease and congruence between the women, two complementary angles facing each other, hanging there, calibrating what next to say in this spontaneous and ineffable predicament. Puffs of their individual, condensed breath floated away in opposite directions. </p>
<p>The dog wandered toward the stranger, sniffing the bottom of her stylish dress coat with intense curiosity. She reached out a hand and was greeted with a defiant little bark before the dog returned to sit obediently at Miss Carol’s feet.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” Miss Carol said, surely about matters more intimate than the dog’s unfriendly behavior.</p>
<p>“I’m in the city doing a little holiday shopping before meeting friends,” the woman’s justification to assuage the chance encounter. I tried not to be captivated by her amiable demeanor and discerning eyes, the kind of face that caused a person to share all their sorrows. I didn’t want to acknowledge it, that this woman understood or even captured a side of Miss Carol that no one else could. She struck me, without a doubt, as her absolute equal. Mere mathematics and equal signs fail to explain matters of the heart, the mystic qualities of love, what made some truer and more equipped for the long haul.</p>
<p>“Yes, I see,” Miss Carol said of the woman’s shopping bag full of books, nodding her head wistfully, acknowledging, I suspected, a shared love of reading. Had it all started perhaps innocently with something as ordinary as a book? A harmless recommendation? <em> I think you’ll like this. </em> I tried not to imagine how it unfolded, a subsequent discussion running late over too much wine. And gradually, the sharing, too much sharing. “I’m so sorry,” the understanding eyes, “she’s young. Yes. She sounds very young. And her family. How hard that must be for you.” Innocuous words of literature eventually proving unnecessary and likely, their clothing too, both riders aboard a runaway train of supine haze.  </p>
<p>The woman mentioned a new job at a nearby private college whose name I can’t recall, and once more, she glanced at me.</p>
<p>"This is my …<em>our …</em>godson, Ethan.” It was the first time she used the term, but it would not be the last. Standing beside her on that snowy night, facing the overturned Tarot card, Miss Carol smiled at me and I felt something new and profound in her regard for me. Gratitude. And I knew that godson wasn’t precisely the word she meant. I might have caused the train wreck, exposing weakened railroad tracks beneath her and Miss Belivet, but my showing up years later, soul-crushed and beaten at her doorstep, well, I was <em>Her</em> <em>Godsend</em>. </p>
<p>“Nice to meet you, Ethan,” the woman’s pale pink lips curled into a wise, benevolent smile, one I thought might be a product of all the books she ever read and an indication that she’d likely already heard about me and my messed up family.  </p>
<p>“Hi,” I said, feeling shy and conflicted about her. I lifted my hand and waved as though she stood 101 unreachable feet away.</p>
<p>The dog barked and pulled on his leash, letting us know it was time to go. What a fine guard dog he proved to be. “Merry Christmas,” Miss Carol said, letting him pull her away and not be led astray.</p>
<p>“You too,” the woman gestured with a slight nod before continuing on her way. I turned briefly and caught the sight of her pulling up the hood of her cloak like a shrouded 18th Century lady on horseback, an apparition; she raced through the crosswalk to get to the other side of the street.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was quiet for a long time, Miss Carol, the dog and I continuing our walk back to the apartment. Eventually, I was the first to speak.</p>
<p>“That was her, wasn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” she said without looking at me. The snow crunched as we walked, all of the secrets of her infidelity felt compacted beneath us, tightly frozen into the tread of our shoes.</p>
<p>I wondered if that was the last time they would ever see each other and doubted that what happened between them produced equivalent regret. My brain still went into overdrive, analyzing the fractures that lead to wide cracks and mathematically, I tried to attribute percentages of fault to the three victims. Ultimately, it wasn’t my place and I would never possess enough unbiased knowledge to calculate fair, proportional blame.  </p>
<p>The closer we got to the apartment, the less I thought about the other woman and the more I thought about how Miss Carol introduced me to her. <span class="u"><strong><em> OUR </em></strong></span> godson. It was everything.</p>
<p>We took our time getting back, letting the dog stop incessantly to place his snout into the ground and taste the freshly fallen snow. </p>
<p>“You saw your mother yesterday?” she asked.</p>
<p>“Yes,” I said, kicking up snow, dragging my feet.</p>
<p>“How’d it go?”</p>
<p>“Okay, I guess. She gave me a few Christmas gifts.” I held up my hands, fitted with a new pair of gloves. I didn’t need to articulate the truth: no amount of gifts could fix my mother not fully accepting me. At least we were talking. The relationship with my father was a different story. Irreparable.</p>
<p>“They look like nice gloves,” Miss Carol said for no other reason than she couldn’t think what else to say of the entire matter and an absence of over-verbalized opinion was her greatest strength.  Noticing no one nearby, she released the dog from his leash. I expected him to run away. He stayed close beside her.</p>
<p>“Let’s get back and have hot cocoa waiting for Therese,” she said, holding onto the last syllable of Miss Belivet’s first name like it was a life raft she clung to in a stormy sea.</p>
<p>“Do you think her family will keep the furniture store?” I asked in light of Miss Belivet’s father recently passing away.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. She’s quite fond of the store and that place.” </p>
<p>“Are you?”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m quite fond of <em> her </em>.” </p>
<p>When she wasn’t looking, I reached down and made a snowball and threw it. My aim was too high and it grazed the side of her head, leaving little clumps of fluffy, falling snow.</p>
<p>“You better run!” she yelled, shaking out her hair, mini-flakes scattering like snow globe glitter, her laughter rich and robust, a younger version of herself unleashed. Oh, how she lit up that night. It was unexpected and wondrous when she and the dog took off like two freshly lit fuses and chased after me. Still frames developing into permanent Christmas memories, we ran in the snow. Laughing all the way. </p>
<p>Home. To wait patiently. For Miss Belivet. </p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>My hands move easily across the piano keys, guided by middle C, navigational north on a musical compass in this apt period of my life. Middle age. The hands attached to my body finally feel they belong to me and not to the person I once was. A younger man. A major reach and extension of each appendage, thumb to little finger, tissue and joints assist in landing the correct notes, some in my own compositions, others penned by the great masters. Beethoven, Liszt, Bach... </p>
<p>And <em> Chopin </em>.</p>
<p>Songs Miss Belivet taught me. The first, Chopin’s <em> Etude No. 3 in E Major, Op 10. </em> The composer himself thought this piece the most beautiful of all his melodies. I couldn’t agree more. It was, after all, the origin of this story about my precious time spent with two extraordinary angels, my true guardians.</p>
<p>Whenever I hear that song, simply the opening note, a most hopeful of sounds, a B natural, I am in a certain New York City apartment again. A black and white photograph of a grand tree hangs above the piano. Beside it, a soft green chair and books on shelves, one the keeper of their love notes. Instantly, I’m greeted by their faces and the discreet glances once exchanged.</p>
<p>It feels I’m falling under each of their unique spells all over again. </p>
<p>When I come to the last note of the music, I linger on it, inserting my own wistful fermata, holding down the piano’s sustaining foot pedal, leaving the work to float in thin air and inside of me. I’m never quite ready to release it.</p>
<p>My hand reaches up and I adjust the position of the reading lamp atop the piano, in that same spot where a piano instructor once kept music books and notes for our lessons and one sad December, the location of a small Christmas tree. This instrument belonged to her, passed on to me. My hands glide across the same black and white keys, terrain her hands once traversed, connecting the same, limited notes in different ways to tell new musical stories. </p>
<p>In the middle of my playing, the buzzing apartment intercom startles me, even though I’m expecting company. </p>
<p>“Hello,” I say into the box and at once I hear her call out my name.</p>
<p>“Come up. I’ll buzz you in.” </p>
<p>I place a wooden chair and music stand beside the piano and wait for her to ascend the stairs to the apartment. She’s early for a change.</p>
<p>When I answer the door I find her in the hallway holding her clarinet case. She looks a little tired, yet somehow, as bright as that very first day. </p>
<p>“I’ve brought the picture you asked for,” she says as she enters the apartment and hands a photograph to me.</p>
<p>Viewing it, I relive that day, hit by a wave of sweet nostalgia. An image of the three of us and the stray dog beside the old truck, a fresh cut tree not yet tied down in its bed. The scent of pine on my new gloves and wet dog on my lap and sounds of the noisy truck engine rumbling as we make our way out of the forest and back to Reading. Crammed together in the truck cab, I’m not seated in between them. Their legs and arms press close together; one lays her hand on the other’s knee. And that night, their breathless, muffled moans drift out from their bedroom with stretching mattress springs chiming like soft hand bells and a ripe and swooning whisper of one of their names. </p>
<p>I was too young to respect the deep complexity of their love, not comprehending exactly what brought them together or tore them apart. I simply knew I helped bring them back together and wished for them to remain that way forever. </p>
<p>I’m older now and understand that in love and life, there are no guarantees. </p>
<p>Turning the photo over, I read <em> Christmas 1992. </em>“Freddy’s first Christmas with you,” I say and touch a finger to the image of the dog. </p>
<p>“Yes, he was the most loyal of friends,” she says, “but I know he loved her best.”</p>
<p>I cannot disagree.</p>
<p>“I’ll make a copy of the photo and get it back to you.”</p>
<p>“No,” she says, “you keep it, dear.” She finds her customary place in the wooden chair beside the piano. “I’ve brought new music for us to learn,” she says, already moving on from memory lane. She hands the pages to me. Her greatest strength, as she grows older, is the ability to let things go gracefully.</p>
<p>Today, there’s just the two of us, an absence of a woman who totes a bag of books, holding her lover’s arm as she comes through the door, eager to share literature with me along with whatever book she’s brought to read. Thick glasses sliding to the end of her nose, she enjoys sitting near us in a comfortable chair close to the piano, listening as she reads, looking up occasionally to gaze with complete adoration at the clarinetist. </p>
<p>I play the opening notes on the piano, ever cognizant that we’ve switched places. My teacher’s the only clarinetist now. My hands make the shapes of the first piano chord and I’m filled with contentment, playing this instrument, my true inclination. </p>
<p>Our music fills the room, an intimate recital. We’re satisfied with just the one audience member. A single, enchanted listener with her whole heart, indelibly focused on the clarinetist’s every note.</p>
<p>And before she lowers her head to resume reading, she always turns and smiles at me.</p>
<p><br/>“Man is capable of changing the world for the better if possible, and of changing himself for the better if necessary.”</p>
<p>― <b>Viktor Emil Frankl, </b> <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3389674"> <b>Man's Search for Meaning</b> </a></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This project was inspired after reading a fascinating Frédéric Chopin biography. His style of playing the piano was considered feminine compared to his peers, “A female sensitivity, passionate and lyrical.” It was said that he spiritualized the sound of the piano until it became transformed into something strange and remote from its original nature. From these descriptions the narrator of this story was born. </p>
<p>Writing from Ethan’s perspective became a more meaningful and difficult “study” than expected. An exercise in writing by omission, each chapter made the technique more challenging and eventually an absolute pleasure to write. My ulterior motive was to shift reader sympathy between the main characters and not tie the story up too nicely with a bow. Hopefully I’ve left you with questions and your own unique interpretations, particularly of the story’s ending.</p>
<p>I’m grateful to the readers who encouraged the story to expand beyond a few chapters, one in particular with a special non-fiction connection to Ethan. I’ve had the last chapter written for some time and let it go gently. I will very much miss my time seeing the world through Ethan’s eyes.</p>
<p>While writing, I listened to a lot of piano music, Canadian pianist and composer Alexandra Stréliski topped the list. I leave you with this link to her piece “Prelude.” I see and hear Ethan in her musical expression and take liberty in envisioning this video as a tribute to Miss Belivet and Miss Carol. </p>
<p>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5-8Nq8kK5Fw&amp;list=PLbANhbk5vhRzBmstbCeJcvAUrinNSFLxM&amp;index=13<br/> <br/>(sorry you need to copy and paste link, ao3 code gives me hair loss)</p>
<p> <br/>With gratitude and peace,<br/>-ST</p>
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